


a vigil for the faithful

by Nomette



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cassandra-Centric, Demons Make Everything Worse, Drama, F/M, Gen, Humor, M/M, Post-Promise of Destruction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4801355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomette/pseuds/Nomette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vigil is simple: you stay up the whole night, you drink a lot, you talk about the dead person, and you punch each other to stay awake. Cassandra has assembled a box of liquor for this purpose--a warden vintage from Blackwall, something Sera snuck in when she wasn’t looking, a bottle of Nevarran wine from Vivienne, some muddy Kirkwall stout from Cullen.<br/>---<br/>A grieving Cassandra deals with the death of her order and the consequences of releasing the cure for Tranquility to the world. Fortunately, Skyhold's got her back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. sleepless and alive

Cassandra splits Lord Seeker Lucius open in the summer, with the heat heavy on her back and hungry insects eagerly picking through what remains of her fellow seekers. She burns the corpses to rid them of the red lyrium and buries the ashes. Lucius she leaves for the birds.  Of her order, these things remain: Cassandra, a small urn with Daniel’s ashes and a few books with the Seeker symbol branded on their fading covers. 

Fifteen days after the death of the Seeker Order, five days after returning from Caer Oswin, Cassandra emerges from the solitude of her room and heads to the chapel. It’s time. A vigil must be held for the fallen seekers, their names must be added to the funeral liturgy. It is customary to announce the names of the dead and pray for them during daily mass, but with the war, news of new dead pours in daily, so the priests have taken to holding the funeral mass only two days a week to keep up morale. Some do not care to begin their morning with a list of the dead.

The priestess has a list of names already, and a quill ready in her belt. “Please go ahead,” she says. Cassandra casts back to all the names she’s picked through in the Seeker ledgers, all the cooks, the stable-boys, the apprentices, the journeymen, those in their year of silence, those newly emerged from the ritual. So few. So many. Once Cassandra is sure she’s squeezed every last name from her memory, the priestess speaks.  

“We’ll add these to Friday’s mass. Hero…” It is the title that Orlesians use, and the priestess has a strong Orlesian accent. “In the normal course of things, you come to church three or four times a week.” It is not quite an accusation. “In times of suffering, we often withdraw from our community, not wanting to share our unhappiness, but in doing so we move further from the Maker and his mercy. But our community is eager to support us, if we will only share our suffering. Lean on your community, Hero. We mourn with you.” Cassandra feels a flush of unhappiness.

“My apologies,” she says stiffly.

“There is nothing to apologize for,” the priestess says. “I was in the Cathedral when the dragons attacked. You saved us. We will be honored to read the rites for you. Will you hold the Vigil tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then we will make sure that no one disturbs you.” And indeed, when Cassandra returns that night, the Chapel of Hessarian’s Sword has been cordoned off.

 

A vigil is simple: you stay up the whole night, you drink a lot, you talk about the dead person, and you punch each other to stay awake. Cassandra has assembled a box of liquor for this purpose--a warden vintage from Blackwall, something Sera snuck in when she wasn’t looking, a bottle of  Nevarran wine from Vivienne, some muddy Kirkwall stout from Cullen. She’s not sure how the news that she was looking for alcohol spread, but people kept coming in with bottles as she was preparing her funeral garb. The wakes and feasts were the only time she ever wore her traditional Nevarran clothes in front of the other Seekers, and she always got a lot of shit for it. She can hear the echo of Daniel’s voice, mocking the dragon-headed shoulders of her funeral dress.

The Chapel of Hessarian’s Sword is more templar than seeker. Templars in various heroic poses are plastered onto the roof in peeling paint. In the center of the chapel, a large painting depicts Hessarian running his sword through Andraste, the same mercy killing she gave Daniel. A single lamp is burning in the wall alcove, filling the chapel with flickering light and shadows. Beyond the limits of her little chapel, someone is weeping. Cassandra is glad for the company.

The Orlesian incense she bought from the merchants in the courtyard makes her cough when she lights it. She takes a swig of the warden vintage, but it only makes her cough more. In death, sacrifice, in bottles, deadly. The weeping dies away and Cassandra is left with the silence of the dead.

“I don’t know what to say,” she announces to Daniel. “So I’m going to read the Canticle of Hours, and hope that I’ve come up with something to say by the end.” That takes the first hour and the rest of the little bottle that Blackwall gave her. She rummages through the crate. Someone, probably Cole, has snuck in a huge bottle of tea.  She takes a swig to soothe her throat and starts on the Nevarran summerwine.

“This isn’t bad, Daniel. You wouldn’t like it, because you’ve got no taste for wine.” It’s awful to talk to this empty chapel and hear back the echo of her voice, but it’s no worse than the little sound Daniel made when she ran him through, or the kick low in her stomach every time she remembers another one of the dead. She takes another drink of the wine in the hopes that it’ll make her more talkative. What do you say to the dead? The wakes she’s been to have been mostly shit-talking and praise of great deeds done, but she hasn’t seen Daniel in two years, not since before the war began.

“I hope the maker smuggles you watered-down beer at the feasts of all the saints so that you don’t get drunk and embarrass yourself in front of all the other seekers,” she announces to the chapel. “I’m not very good at this. I should think of something heroic to say.” She stumbles through a bad retelling of the time Daniel fought off a bunch of bandits while she was sick, drinking wine to help herself through her verbal fumbling. When she’s finished, there’s only half an inch of wine left in the bottle, so she finishes it off.

What to drink next? She lines up Leliana’s orlesian absinthe, Cullen’s muddy stout and Josphine’s Antivan brandy. They can advise her. The empty bottle of wine knocks against her foot as she gets up and stretches. She picks it up. It’s heavy, good quality glass. A simple overhand throw would shatter it. It would be so satisfying to shatter all of the bottles in her crate and fill the chapel with broken glass, get through all the liquor that should have been drunk by all the people who should be here instead of rotting in dungeons.

Instead of throwing the bottle, she drops it on the ground, where it shatters quite satisfyingly. “Fuck Lord Seeker Lucius,” she announces. That seems like it should be a toast, so she pops the cap on the absinthe and takes a drink. “Fuck him to the abyss. I hope he gets flayed alive.” She’s never been great at graphic depictions of torture, so she steals from one of the scenes in Varric’s books. She can just picture all of her barracks-mates laughing at her recital and lifting their drinks.“Fuck this recent round of bad Seeker leadership!”  She’s drunk enough that the absinthe barely even burns. “In fact, fuck the entire Seeker order!”

The last announcement echoes through the whole church and she wonders what time it is.  “O maker, why do we have to suffer through this bullshit?” There’s no answer. “In that case, let’s go to the Canticle of Threnodies! The Canticle of Threnodies takes her through to the time when dawn is starting to filter into the chantry. She thinks she hears the sound of a door opening somewhere behind her, but when she peers out into the chantry, no one’s there. Maybe it’s the maker, come to eavesdrop.

“Seekers!” she says grandly to the empty chapel. “All of the order is assembled here before you! Be merry and drink, for we are all going to die! Look at the illust-illest-illustrious people who went before you! So when you go, you’ll be in good company! Let’s get smashed at the Maker’s side!” That had been the rallying cry of her knight-captain, and he’d said it at every wake he’d ever been to, and after he died his first apprentice had said it for him at all the other wakes.

The absinthe is just about done, which makes it time for Cullen’s beer. “I told you not to stay with the templars, Daniel. You should have joined the Inquisition with me. Fucking templars, can’t do their job correctly. Even Cullen, and the best thing about him is that he knows he’s not a very good templar.” She hiccups. “Disrespectful, I know, but I’ll be gone soon. How’s the Maker’s side? Are you there yet? Can you bring me with you?”

She’s out of things to read aloud, so she starts listing the names of the dead in the order she met them in, with a little blessing afterwards. She repeats a few names and she’s sure she forgets a few others, but that’s fine. There’s no one alive to know the difference. “Oh, and fuck Corepheus. And the Divine! Not as an insult, Most Holy, but you should be here, at the end of the list of the dead. And Regalyan. Regalyan should be on this list. Anthony! Anthony wasn’t a seeker, but he can come too. That’s everyone.” She hears the distinct scraping of someone unbarring the front door to the Chantry.

“At last we are done here. Draw your last breath, my friends, cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and forgive me.” She stumbles out of the Chapel, broken glass crunching underneath her boots.

Varric is standing a few steps outside of the chapel, a flickering candle in his hand.

“Varric! Come to join the wake? It’s over now.” She laughs and steadies herself on a pew.

“Just coming in for morning prayers, Seeker.” The candle does more to hide his face than show it, but she thinks she sees him wince. There’s some kind of verse about liars, but she can’t remember it.

“I forget that you’re a believer,” she says absently. “Oh, I remembered the verse! There is but one Truth. All things are known to our Maker and He will judge their lies. Those who bear false witness and work to deceive others know this.”

“Still on about that, Seeker?” Cassandra thinks about this.

“No, not really. I thought that maybe Hawke could have saved the most holy, but now I think that none of them could have been saved, or maybe I just can’t save anyone.” Her knee wobbles unexpectedly, and she has to grab the pew with a second hand to keep herself upright . Varric moves to steady her.

“You probably shouldn't throw up in the cathedral,” he says, and grabs her with one hand. Cassandra stares at him.

“There’s nothing else here to throw up on.”

“Let’s get you back to your room.” Cassandra lets him keep her arm and steer her, concentrating on taking one step after the other. They reach a door, and Cassandra stands and wobbles for a while before the noise in her ears resolves into Varric asking her for her keys. She fishes them out of her pocket and lets Varric open the door before she staggers into the room, and passes out on her bed.


	2. the distribution of possessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can undo the ritual of tranquillity?”
> 
> “Yes,” says Cole. “That one, the cutting one. I can sew the string back on.” He looks pleased with himself. “I can tell the mages. You don’t want to, but you want. Why?”

The headache the day after the vigil feels like penance: Cassandra works it off with her sword and a large bottle of water. She’s just started to feel better when a trio of pilgrims pops up next to her tree.

“Do you believe in our lord and savior, Andraste?”

“Yes,” says Cassandra suspiciously. The pilgrims look relieved.

“And do you believe in blood magic?”

“It exists, although it shouldn’t. Is there a point to these questions?” This is the wrong move. The pilgrims start to talk like Leliana’s got them tied to a chair. Apparently, there’s a rogue Tevinter Magister named Durian who is hiding out among the faithful and kidnapping pilgrims to use in his demented sex rituals and “blood magic and suchlike, ma'am, he’s raised the skeletons and whatnot.” The breach must have sucked all the common sense out of Thedas. Cassandra just stands there and nods until a long pause alerts her that she’s agreed to something.

“So you will go see him? We looked for Ser Cullen, but he is not in his office, and his templars were unhelpful.” Cassandra’s protests are totally useless. In the end she agrees just to get them to leave her alone and heads up to the library to investigate whether Dorian’s recovered from the bear last week. Cassandra’s no fan of strange magic, but Dorian’s no more of a threat than any of the others who pile into the field with the Inquisitor, and less than some.

The dreaded necromancer himself is playing chess with Cullen when she enters the library. They make a funny pair, Cullen in his sensible plate armor and Dorian in his ostentatious mess of leather and straps. Cassandra’s own boots clank on the floor and Grand Enchanter Fiona glances at her through narrowed eyes before returning  to her books. It would have been better, perhaps, not to wear armor to the library, but it hadn’t occurred to her.

“Cassandra,” Cullen says. It sounds like a warning, or a caution.

“Cullen,” Cassandra returns, and looks over at Dorian, who wiggles his fingers at her.

“As always, the two of you provide a perfect model of southern stoicism. I can only imagine the thrilling conversations you must have when you’re alone together.”

“Hello, Dorian,” says Cassandra wearily. Her headache is returning. Dorian throws around words as easily as he kindles fireballs. Cassandra is not fond of an abundance of either, although in a pinch she’ll take the fire.

“Hello, Dorian,” Dorian repeats in a monotone imitation of Cassandra.  “Am I keeping you from the company of our admittedly delightful commander? I was here first, you know.”

“I’m not here for Cullen,” Cassandra says. Oddly, this does not make Cullen any less tense.

“So you are here for me,” says Dorian. “Have you come at last to take me away for being a naughty boy?” Cassandra is not going to ask him how naughty he’s been. That would be inappropriate.

“I am not in charge of naughty people,” she says. It’s not much better. Dorian stifles his laugh with a cough, badly, while Cullen goes stiff. Cassandra tries again.

“I was wondering if I could have a word with you in private.” Dorian glances sideways at Cullen before he looks back up at her. Interesting.

“Do you have something to confide in me?” he asks. “I’m flattered.”

“I just wanted to talk to you about some necromancy,” she says. Dorian’s eyebrows climb into a skeptical expression which utterly fails to hide his interest. He once gushed to Lavellan about necromancy for the entire three hour trek from one end of the storm coast to the other. Academics are all the same.

“Well, I am Skyhold’s foremost expert,” he says. “What did you want to know?”

“It’s more a matter of some necromancy that you didn’t do,” Cassandra says. “A bunch of pilgrims cornered me to complain about demented Tevinter sex rituals.” Dorian’s eager mood vanishes and he puffs up. Cullen is sitting very still, like he doesn’t want to be noticed.

“Where else would I practice?” Dorian asks. “Or do you only allow for necromancy when it’s out in the field, not in your precious Skyhold?” Cassandra snorts.

“You can practice wherever you want, Dorian, although there is a strict no skeletons in the chantry rule. Other than the ones that are supposed to be there, of course.”

“Then why are you here?” Dorian speaks slowly, his mouth shaping each word with careful venom. It would be stupid for Cassandra to feel disappointed. These conversations never go well for her, and that’s just how it is. It’s fine.

She should leave before she loses her temper.

“I promised some pilgrims that I would investigate you for corrupting the inquisitor, carrying on blood magic, raising the dead and dancing with them in the castle yard, kidnapping the kitchen staff for use in unholy rituals, and flying through the air on a kitchen apparatus.” This is all strictly true. Dorian looks caught between anger and bewilderment. “I assume you aren’t doing any of these things, but I thought you should know that I’m investigating the matter.” Cassandra puts investigating in air quotes. “If you feel the need to do any of these things, please let me know. Good day.”

Cullen catches her on the stairs as she’s leaving the great hall.

“What was that?” he demands. Cassandra keeps walking. “Dorian is not…using servants in unholy rituals! Or doing blood magic, or any of those other things.” Hmmm. This is unexpected. She and Cullen are friends, and better, they are both fluent in the language of the sword. It makes her think that he’s been spending too much time with Dorian, or not enough time with Cassandra. And whose fault is that? Cassandra should be out more, not brooding over Lord Seeker Lucius. Cullen must sense her disappointment, because he straightens up like she’s Meredith come to dress him down.

“Sorry. I was surprised,” he says. Cassandra shrugs blandly and gives him a weak smile. Cullen is awkward with mages so it is surprising to see him defending Dorian, but not unwelcome. Is that not one of the duties of templars, to protect mages?

“Let’s discuss this out of the open,” Cassandra suggests. The last thing she needs is more rumors. They head to Cullen’s office, saluting the guards as they walk along the ramparts. Cullen closes the door behind them and looks at her expectantly.

“With Josephine gone, the pilgrims have been harassing me about Dorian. I had been planning to talk to him, but…” Cassandra sighs and rubs the back of her neck. “I am not very good at dealing with Dorian. Truly, I don’t suspect him of being a maleficar, just a show-off and a tit.” Cullen stifles a laugh. “After that scene in the library, I’m sure the gossip rounds will have me suspecting him of murder, when my own damn uncle is a mortalitasi.” The last bit slips out accidentally, riding on the heels of Cassandra’s frustration.

“Mortalitasi?”

“Necromancer.” Cullen shrugs.

“No offense, but I don’t know anything about that Nevarran shit.” Cullen’s uncharacteristic frankness startles a laugh out of Cassandra.

“I don’t know much about it either. After the bit with the skull, I tried to stay out of it.”

“The bit with the skull?”

Cassandra snorts irritably.“When I was eight, I visited this uncle and he asked me to fetch him a pencil from his desk. There was a skull on his desk. I thought he was a maleficar, so I decided to take the skull as evidence and report him to the templars later. So I hid the skull in my clothes and when my maid found it, she fainted.”

Cullen bursts out laughing. Maker, she’s missed him.

“You put it in your smallclothes drawer, didn’t you?” he says and puts one hand over his face. “Of course you did. All eight year olds are the same.”

“I thought it was undignified,” says Cassandra. “So I wrapped the skull in a dinner napkin before I put it in my drawer. My maid thought I was saving a cinnamon bun.” Cullen leans against the door and laughs until he’s red to the tips of his ears.

“What’s so funny?” Cassandra says, imitating the pompous Inquisition drill sergeant that neither she nor Cullen like. “This is an instructional anecdote about the dangers of death magic, commander. Are you not taking it seriously?” Cullen wheezes.

“I’ve the greatest respect for instructional teaching anecdotes, but my instructor could use some work. What happened to the poor skull?”

“My uncle said if I wanted it that badly I could have it. I took it with me when I went to train as a seeker, and kept it in my smallclothes drawer to frighten people. Apparently it was some kind of replica teaching skull.”

“Mages,” says Cullen. “What the hell do you use a replica teaching skull for?”

“Mages,” agrees Cassandra. “And to your question, teaching, apparently.” There is a moment of silence as they both contemplate mages and their ridiculous ways. Cassandra feels better for it.

“I could ask Dorian if he has a replica teaching skull,” Cullen suggests innocently. “In case you’re in need of further protection.”

“I’ll manage somehow,” says Cassandra. “I didn’t know you two were so close.” Cullen looks faintly embarrassed.

“He’s sort of.. charming,” Cullen mutters. This is the real joy of having Cullen as a friend: he is an even easier target for teasing than Cassandra, not least because he keeps doing dubious things like befriending exiled mages.

“He’s certainly something,” says Cassandra. “Definitely, for example, irreverent and rude, and not particularly good at quashing rumors that he’s controlling the inquisitor with blood magic.” She sighs. “The other day some servants came to me claiming that they had found evidence he was a malificar in his quarters,  and it turned out that he had spilled some jam on the floor.” Cullen looks annoyed.

“Why did they come to you?”

“Well,” says Cassandra. “You’ve been emotionally compromised.” She’s only quoting the stupid pilgrims, but Cullen’s face flushes red.

“Are you telling me to stop being friends with him?”

“Of course not,” says Cassandra. “I am not a hypocrite, Cullen. Rumors are the opposite of truth. When I think about it, I am glad to have you close to Dorian. A mage should be close to a templar.” This is the other joy of Cullen as a friend: Cassandra does not need to varnish her words with him. “I wanted to tell him that I am not going to arrest him for spilling jam, but I am not very good at being reassuring.”

“No, you’re awful at it,” Cullen says, but he seems relieved. “I’ll tell Dorian he can carry on with his jam eating activities.” Cassandra wants to ask if he’s going to reassure Dorian, but Cullen will tell her what he’s comfortable telling her. They are silent for a moment, and then Cullen claps her on the shoulder.

“Enough of that. No more rumors. Let’s go spar in the yard; the trainees have been lazy lately.”

“Maker, yes.” They make their way down the stairs and out into the training yard. Cassandra cannot resist the urge to complain to Cullen, just a little. “Ever since the rebel mages came to Skyhold, everyone is an expert on malificar. ‘Cassandra, the mages are setting things on fire. Cassandra, the mages are putting out fires in an unholy ritual. Cassandra, the mages are destroying a ritual effigy of a donkey.’” Cullen nods.

“That was when they were having a party for someone’s birthday, right?”

“Yes,” says Cassandra. “I had never heard of this antivan pinata before, but it seems like an excellent tradition to me.” They reach the yard and head for their usual spot.

“Make way,” bellows Cullen. “It’s time to show the lady seeker how the templars fight!”

“I know how you fight,” says Cassandra in Cullen’s ear. “Worse than I do.” Cullen grins and bangs his fist on the front of his armor. It is the first good day she’s had since her she watched her Order die at Caer Ostwick, and she can almost believe that there will be more of them.  

That night, as Cassandra prepares for bed, a mug of tea to her left and a book to her right, tired and pleased with the bruises she got while beating Cullen into shape, Cole sticks his head in the room. Cassandra nearly throws her book at him before she realizes who it is.

“You wanted to see me,” said Cole. “It’s been bothering you all week.”

“That door was locked!” says Cassandra, and hastily closes her book and puts it behind her where Cole won’t see the title or illustrations.

“I think I can do it, if Solas helps,” says Cole. “Reattach the strings. Bring back the stolen sound and song. Can’t fix it, can make it different, not like was, but like it should be. Not sleeping. Dead. Alive again.” Cassandra’s usual strategy with things that don’t make sense is to punch them, but sadly there’s no way to beat Cole’s speech into submission, and she’s not going to hit Cole.

“You can undo the ritual of tranquillity?”

“Yes,” says Cole. “That one, the cutting one. I can sew the string back on.” He looks pleased with himself. “I can tell the mages. You don’t want to, but you want. Why?” Cole’s head is still sticking through the door, mostly obscured by hat. Cassandra feels a sudden surge of irritation. If he’s going to pick the lock, he might as well come all the way in and close the door behind him. “Okay,” says Cole, and hops in and closes the door, and she really wishes he wouldn’t do that.

“I don’t know if the ritual will actually help,” Cassandra says, quietly. “The notes from the ritual suggest that many mages cured from tranquility become wild, erratic, unable to fight away demons.”

“It takes time to become a person.” It sounds like Cole is agreeing with her.

“And… I do not want this ritual to become widely known if it is, in fact, not a cure, and only makes the mages vulnerable to possession.” Something lurches in her chest, thinking of the great seeker castle made gloomy and splashed with blood, the beautiful banners of their order all stained and ruined. When her blade split Lord Lucius’ skull, it felt as though she herself had taken the blow. She wants no more corpses to her order’s name.

“You’re so hurt,” says Cole, surprised. “You’re almost never hurt. The holy vigil you kept protects your heart has got a tear.” He stops, frowning, and begins to mutter to himself, something about Solas. Cassandra watches him wearily, and it occurs to her that she hasn’t got a sword. She can’t see any sheathes on Cole. His knives just appear, like Cole himself.

“Cole, do you have something to say?”

“You’re not an order,” says Cole. “Let’s tell Solas. No, Solas knows that already.” Cassandra’s heart lurches.

“Did you tell Solas?” she demands.

“Maybe?” Cassandra should go for her sword, but what’s the use? She can’t catch Cole, not with how he moves, can’t stop him from telling Solas everything detail of the ritual. She’s not even sure she wants to catch him. The order kept this information to themselves, but the order made so many mistakes, one on top of another until there was nothing left but the mistakes.  Nothing but a single woman in her room, reading sad books and wishing she’d been able to save any of the things she really cared about.

“Okay,” Cassandra says quietly. It feels like relief. A decision taken out of her hands. A sudden flare of anger swells in her chest: when did she become such a coward? There is something here that she can fix, so she should fix it.

“You’re hurt,” says Cole. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it wrong. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But Solas can help. Solas knows. He knows me. Knows spirits. I hope, I think, that he can make the ritual work.” Cole is gnawing on a strand of his hair. Cassandra doesn’t think he’s even noticed.

“Stop that!” Cole stops. She goes to her desk and assembles the relevant papers. “Take these to Solas, and ask him- ask him to let me know, if the ritual will work.” If her voice breaks on the last syllable, what does it matter? There’s no hiding from Cole.

“I’m sorry,” says Cole, scooping up the papers.

“Just take them. And don’t break into my room!”

“Didn’t try to,” says Cole, and then he’s out the door. He even locks it- Cassandra can hear the bolt click home. Maker preserve her. She rolls over in bed and pulls the pillow over her head. There’s something about Cole that completely ruins the desire to read literature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: When Cassandra walks into the tavern a great cheer goes up, and several mages shoot sparks into the air, causing The Iron Bull’s mug to catch on fire. A pillar of ice appears in the middle of the table as three mages ice the cup at once, and an even greater cheer goes up. Cassandra has never seen so many drunk mages in her life.  
> “This was a trap,” she hisses to Varric. 
> 
> Probably going to do weekly updates. 
> 
> I'm Nomette on tumblr, come talk to me.


	3. pre-ritual celebrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aren’t you a fount of cheer today,” Varric muses. “I would think that finding a way to reverse tranquility would have lifted your spirits, but no.”  
> “How did you find out about that?” Varric laughs at her, but not unkindly.  
> “Solas rooms right by me, remember? He’s tearing up a storm with Cole and about ten mages, doing some kind of weird dance. The library is stirred up worse than a bunch of bees. No doubt everyone in Orlais will know by the end of the week.”  
> “I was just trying to do the right thing,” Cassandra says stiffly.  
> “Of course you were,” says Varric. “So you could get it over with and then go back to hitting the tree."

She catches Solas in his room early the next morning, before matins. It’s too early to be up, but after waking from a nightmare of Lord Seeker Lucius making her tranquil, Cassandra is in no hurry to go back to sleep. Solas is at his desk when she comes in, looking as though he hasn’t slept the whole night. The papers Cassandra had given Cole are strewn across his desk.

“Seeker.” The title is like a twist of a knife against her skin.

“Solas.” Cassandra has never been the most patient woman. “Does it work? Do you know if it will work?”

“It will work.”

“And the mages, will they turn into abominations afterwards, or will they be able to live their lives?” Cassandra clamps her mouth shut and forces herself to stop talking. They are, after all, directly below Leliana’s ravens and the Grand Enchanter’s unofficial office.

“They will be unstable at first, but they will stabilize with time. Eventually, they will be no more dangerous than any other mage exposed to the trauma of this war. What will you do?” Solas is oddly still. He is, she realizes, expecting an attack.

“I will tell Grand Enchanter Fiona myself,” she says. Solas relaxes minutely, but he keeps his eyes on her sword arm.

“You know what the ritual entails?”

“I went through it.” Cassandra has pored over the seeker documents enough to have them memorized, searching desperately for a line or a moment that will startle her memory into giving up its secrets. She does not remember being made tranquil, does not remember allowing a spirit to climb into her body. In her head, she has retraced the ceremony again and again, walked down the chapel steps silently and retraced the prayers until her memory blurred, leaving her unable to distinguish the sparse ritual descriptions from her own experience. Only one memory stands out sharply: light, and an oceanic silence, like the breath before the Maker spoke.

Solas studies her silently, one hand out of sight, probably gripping a staff underneath the desk. At last he lifts his hands and settles them on the desk.

“I am always impressed by you. Those who wear armor usually shrink from spirits. But you volunteered this information.”

“I didn’t,” says Cassandra.

“No?” says Solas. “Cole told me that you gave him these papers.”

“Yes,” says Cassandra. “But…I have known since the raid last week, and I have told no one. Cole forced my hand.”

“I doubt that,” says Solas gently. “It is not in his nature.”

Anger threatens to burst out of Cassandra, but she holds it back. I was afraid, she wants to say. I will take no credit for being so low that a spirit in a large hat was better able to see what I wanted than I was.

“I am not an expert on spirits,” Cassandra says, and folds her arms. “But if I have been…touched by a spirit and suffered no ill effects, I cannot condemn the practice, not when it could do so much good. That does not mean, of course, that we should start calling up spirits left and right.”

“Of course not,” says Solas. “They would be annoyed.” He looks back to his papers, and Cassandra feels herself to be dismissed. Something about the way Solas deals with soldiers makes her think he had his own followers once, but she does not ask. He has earned his peace, fighting at the Inquisitor's side. As she is leaving, Solas calls after her. “Before you go, Cole said to remind you to take off your armor before you go to the library.”

 

Cassandra owns four gambesons, which are meant to be worn under armor, a wide range of leggings, all gifts from the inquisitor, and two festival dresses, one of which still smells like beer. She had more than this when she came to Haven, but it’s all under the snow now.

“I don’t need more,” she mutters to herself. “I should just wear the armor.” But she doesn’t want to go to Fiona with a seeker symbol plastered across her front. In the end she picks the least sweat-stained undertunic and heads for the library. Thankfully, Dorian is not in. He is probably sleeping off a round of drinks or raising skeletons in the courtyard specifically to spite her, unless Cullen’s already gotten to him.

When Cassandra enters, Grand Enchanter Fiona is leafing through a stack of reports with a weary expression on her face that makes her look like Cullen, although neither of them would appreciate the comparison. Her eyes flicker to Cassandra’s face with the expression that all superior officers have, inviting Cassandra to speak. Cassandra goes into a parade rest, propelled by worried instinct, and tries to think of a way to begin.

“Good morning, Cassandra,” the Grand Enchanter says slowly. “Did you want something?” There is always something that Cassandra forgets. This time it is the tranquil woman sitting a table over and scanning books with an abstracted expression, barely more of a person than the furniture.

“When I was, ah, investigating the books held by the seekers, I found a book which contained a seeker ritual. That is, I found a ritual which is known to reverse tranquility. I did not tell anyone, because the ritual is known to have side effects which cause great instability in the person who undergoes it, but I have since come to believe that it is not my place to withhold this information. I have given all the papers I had to Solas, who believes that the ritual will work. I hope that you will be able to restore the tranquil.” Cassandra turns to leave, but Fiona grabs her arm with surprising speed.

“Cassandra, if this is true, I will put every mage of mine on this and we will not stop until it works. Do you trust these papers?”

“I, myself, was made tranquil once,” Cassandra says, closing her eyes. “And then I was brought back. It is, ah, the source of a Seeker’s powers. My order has dwindled. Now it is only me. I have no power to ask…but if you could, out of respect for the dead, not tell anyone how Seekers are made, I would appreciate it.”

“Cassandra,” Fiona says again, her voice low and intense. “Sit down.” Cassandra sits. “Good. Now, let’s discuss this in more detail.”

 

Fiona is excruciating. She has the knowledge of a general, the understanding of a revered mother, and the merciless calm of a Grey Warden. She strips Cassandra's knowledge from her, thanks her, and then sends her out to practice in the yard. Cassandra is happy to renew her relationship with the tree. The tree makes no comments about her tunic, her order, or her boots. It casts no magic and cares not for demons. It accepts every blow without ever getting tired. It is, in short, the perfect partner for the sort of work Cassandra wants to do. She’s been neglecting her training and it feels good to lift her sword again, to feel sweat trickling between her breasts and the sun on her back, to fall into the perfection of routine, pure and simple, written into her muscle and bone with the heavy hand of memory. She loves the sound the blade makes when she swings it just right, the satisfying ache in her shoulders, the way her body absorbs the shock of each blow. It feels like being a sword in the Maker’s hand, like disentangling a long argument and finding yourself perfectly correct at the end.

When she finishes, Varric gives her a dry round of applause.

“How long have you been standing there?” Cassandra demands. Varric’s got a certain presence--swagger, like a pirate in a book. Something about his voice, the way his shirt dips over his chest, the way he can catch a whole crowd’s attention without lifting his voice. She’s always astonished when he manages to sneak up on her.

“Not long,” he says, giving her a crooked grin. “I heard you’d come out of that suit of armor and I thought I’d investigate. Always thought you were welded to that thing.” When they traveled together from Kirkwall to Haven, Varric had been friendly to her in his sideways manner, telling her wild and improbable tales that made her forget the waves and the mud. He has not been so friendly for months, not since they fought about Hawke.

“Varric, are you just here to tease me?” Her accent gets thicker when she thinks about what she’s saying;: she hopes Varric doesn’t notice.

“Me?” says Varric. “I’m sure I would never. I'm here on very important seekerly business.” Varric is very charming. It is one of the most annoying things about him. Cassandra, who has been called charmless by enough people to recognize the truth, dislikes it as she dislikes any weapon she can’t defend well against.

“Well?”

“Aren’t you a fount of cheer today,” Varric muses. “I would think that finding a way to reverse tranquility would have lifted your spirits, but no.”

“How did you find out about that?” Varric laughs at her, but not unkindly.

“Solas rooms right by me, remember? He’s tearing up a storm with Cole and about ten mages, doing some kind of weird dance. The library is stirred up worse than a bunch of bees. No doubt everyone in Orlais will know by the end of the week.”

“I was just trying to do the right thing,” Cassandra says stiffly.

“Of course you were,” says Varric. “So you could get it over with and then go back to hitting the tree. I do have to ask though--what’s with the tunic?”

I seem to be the only person in the world troubled by an overabundance of helpful spirits, thinks Cassandra. I wanted to wear armor without a huge Seeker symbol plastered across the front. I didn’t want to offend Fiona.

“Armor’s dented,” she says.

“Damn, how’d that happen? Never mind, don’t want to know. Anything that awful around Skyhold, I don’t want to think about it.”

“Varric, what are you here for?” Lately Varric is like a question that she can’t answer, and it makes her tetchy.

“I can’t stop by to chat?” he asks. “You’re wounding my professional integrity as a storyteller--okay, okay. Jeez. You need a backrub or something? I have a problem with red lyrium.” His voice drops, and Cassandra leans in, embarrassed, but interested. “I found some down in the dungeons.”

“What?”

“Not much. Took it to Dagna, she stuck it in some kind of vial and muttered something about runes.” He sighs and scratches the back of his neck. It’s very theatrical and as always, Varric makes theater look better than reality. “Look, I heard from Sparkler that you were doing some kind of investigation, and I thought you should know. That kind of shit doesn’t just pop up out of nowhere.”

“Thank you,” says Cassandra automatically, and then, “The gossip around here is worse than the twice-blessed barracks!” Varric shrugs.

“Come down to the bar,” he suggests. “Sort of empty without Josie to fleece everybody. You can arm wrestle people, and I can charge them.”

“Doesn’t seem like much of a partnership.”

“Come on,” says Varric, and grins.“Sucker them in with how nice you look in that dress, then destroy them.”

“It’s a tunic,” says Cassandra with a flush of mixed pleasure and embarrassment, but she lets him talk her into going to the tavern.

 

When Cassandra walks into the tavern a great cheer goes up, and several mages shoot sparks into the air, causing The Iron Bull’s mug to catch on fire. A pillar of ice appears in the middle of the table as three mages ice the cup at once, and an even greater cheer goes up. Cassandra has never seen so many drunk mages in her life.

“This was a trap,” she hisses at Varric.

“I was bribed,” Varric says shamelessly.

“For the love of the Maker,” Cassandra mutters, and heads over to The Iron Bull, who is disconsolately trying to remove his arm from where the mages froze it to the table. She unclips her sheathed sword, signals for the people behind her to move back, and swings. Chips of ice fly everywhere.

“Thanks,” says Bull.

“Aw, you ruined it!” says Sera. “We were going to see if he could get his hand out without breaking the table in half.”

Bull turns his drink upside down and shakes it, but it’s frozen completely solid.

“I could help with that,” Dorian offers, lighting a fire between his fingers with a snap.

“I think I’ve had enough magic,” Bull grumbles.

“We need a drink over here!” Sera yells. “Drinks for Cassandry for doing the mage thing!” More cheering. Someone, slightly less drunk than the rest, waves their hands and teleports a mug of beer straight onto their table. Bull and Cassandra look at it suspiciously.

“It’s just movement,” says Dorian. As he reaches for the beer there’s a flash of magic, and three new mugs appear on the table.  Bull frowns, picks one up, drains it, and then sets it down again, looking thoughtful.

“Yeah,” he says, and grabs another mug. “It’s beer. Awesome.” Sera cackles, grabs two drinks, and then heads over to the table where Blackwall is sitting with Krem. The barmaid appears and unloads another five mugs onto their table in the conventional way.

“What’s this?” asks Cassandra.

“Every mage in the place wants to buy you a drink, ser,” says the barmaid. Cassandra frowns at the five mugs. If people want to celebrate, that’s fine, she thinks, but there’s no need to celebrate her. All she did was give Solas some papers.

“You, uh, gonna drink all of that?” Bull asks.

“Go ahead,” says Cassandra.

“Any chance of the commander showing up?” Dorian asks. “I’d rather like to see him lose at Wicked Grace again.” Cullen would probably be on the verge of a panic attack if he saw all these incredibly drunk mages. Cassandra has never met a templar who didn’t react to large groups of mages like a sheepdog to sheep, and Cullen is worse than most. He never says anything, but he avoids the tower where the mages congregate unless Vivienne is there.

“He’s in his room with a headache, and I doubt Varric is going to go collect him.” Cassandra certainly isn’t going to pry him out, not when she’d rather be in her own bed. A loud bang, and a series of colorful fireworks shoot down from the second floor. Cassandra flinches, but Dorian and Bull ignore it.

“Almost stabbed the guys behind me with my horns the first time I heard that,” Bull says. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Ugh,” says Cassandra. To the Maker with it. Her armor will need refitting soon, and there’s a nice shield in the merchants’ stands. “I take no responsibility for this,” she says and chugs a mug of beer, then rolls up her sleeves.

“Arm wrestling contest,” she says. “Loser pays a crown.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” yells Bull, and plunks his arm down on the table hard enough to make the beer start foaming.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: “I heard about your order. I’m sorry to hear it.”  
> “It is what it is,” says Cassandra. Varric looks like he’s going to say something, and then the door opens to the hall opens and Cullen steps into the stairwell.  
> “Cassandra, we need to talk.”  
> “Oof,” says Varric. “I didn’t even know the two of you were dating.” Both of them ignore him.  
> “Let’s go talk, then,” says Cassandra. Cullen’s face is drawn and tight, and his hand keeps straying to the pommel of his sword.


	4. trepidation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All people have the right to a proper trial before being sentenced,” Cassandra says. “What would you have me do? Abandon those whom we know were wronged?”

Cassandra wakes up to the sound of someone picking the lock on her door. “Seeker, are you decent? I’m coming in.” A curse on chipper dwarves and their incredible resistance to beer. When Cassandra turns over and pulls the pillow over her head, coins spill everywhere, rolling and clicking in an explosion of sound that makes her head throb.

“Why am I sleeping in money?” Cassandra mumbles. She makes herself lift the pillow and open one eye. Varric is standing at the edge of the pile of money, holding some kind of tray.

“Still alive, Seeker?”

“Yes,” says Cassandra sullenly. Varric chuckles and sits on the edge of the bed, the little movement spilling more coins onto the floor.

“Varric, why are you here?”

“So suspicious. I’m bringing you tea, obviously.” Cassandra does not have the mental resources to spar with him right now, so she takes the tea and sips it miserably. More coins slip to the floor with more awful clinking.

“Where did all this money come from?” she asks, wishing the coins away. However much money it is, it can’t be worth this ache. Her arm and back are throbbing with the sort of pain she usually only gets from fighting giants in the field. “Did I duel with someone?”

Varric chuckles. “Well, Seeker, the more drunk you get, the more aggressive you get about challenging people to arm wrestling matches. And when you’re very drunk, you are very good at arm wrestling.”

“Ugh,” says Cassandra. “Is that why my back feels like I’ve been blocking giants?”

“That might be from when you picked up the Iron Bull and carried him around the bar.” Varric’s tone is as chipper as an apprentice with the right answer. Cassandra wants to strangle him.

“Don’t tell me any more. I don’t want to know.”

“I haven’t even gotten to the best part,” protests Varric.

“There is no good part,” Cassandra says, and makes herself down the rest of the tea. Her mouth tastes like two weeks in a cave eating nothing but rats and uncooked mushrooms.   

“That’s a rather pessimistic attitude.” The ridiculousness of this statement is not worth addressing, so instead Cassandra hands her teacup to Varric, who refills it. Her back hurts, probably from lifting the Iron Bull. She has a vague memory of being challenged, the Bull saying something about her strength for her size, and then…

“Did I really throw Bull into a crowd of people?”

“The chargers caught him,” Varric confirms.

“I’m never celebrating anything again,” Cassandra mutters, and bravely takes a drink of the tea. “Do any of those mages have a spell that cures hangovers?”

It turns out that mages can, in fact, cure hangovers, or at least make the nausea stop long enough for Cassandra to eat some bread rolls and greasy leftover breakfast. Varric accompanies her, wearing an expression of mild amusement that grates on her nerves.

She finishes her meal, thanks the poor little mage who has been doing hangover spells all morning, and staggers back to her room. If Corepheus attacks now he’ll be in good shape. Half the spellpower of Skyhold is currently unable to deal with bright lights for more than ten seconds. When she opens the door to her room, she see’s that someone has stacked all the coins in her room on the table--probably Cole, since there’s no sign that anyone’s broken in. Cassandra falls asleep resolving to get a better lock.

It’s late evening when she wakes up again, tired and cross, but less hungover. Her head hurts, but it’s no worse than the pain Cullen carries around on a daily basis. She limps to the kitchens and begs a plate of leftovers off of a servant, then slinks back to her room to eat and think in peace. Why did Varric invite her to that party, and why did he come to her room? Has he decided to stop being cross with her at last? It’s been six months and change since their argument, and Varric hasn’t had a single nice thing to say to her in all that time. She broods on it until she’s done with her food, then drops off the plate and heads up to the Great Hall.

Vivienne catches her on the way in.

“Cassandra, my dear, that is no way for the Hero of Orlais to look.” She taps Cassandra on the forehead and blessed coolness spreads down Cassandra’s body, chasing out the lingering exhaustion of the night before. “There, much better. Come along.” Cassandra is not programmed to obey women in ball gowns, but something about Vivienne’s voice slips under her defenses to a place where she is twelve years old again and listening to her commander shout drill instructions. She follows Vivienne up the stairs and sits where she’s told to sit, though she declines the wine Vivienne offers her.

“A bit too much, my dear? I assure you this is better than that swill they had you drinking last night.”

“Thank you, Vivienne, but I really can’t.”

“A poor thank you those rebels gave you, leaving you with a hangover.” Cassandra gets the sinking feeling that this is going to be about the ritual, because everything in her life these days is about the ritual. She’s packing off to the Blasted Wastes to become a solitary warrior as soon as this conversation is over.  

“I wouldn’t think you would know a spell to get rid of hangovers,” she says, because she’s still hoping that Vivienne’s brought her up here to make fun of her armor, or perhaps her tunic.

“It’s a spell to keep people up in battle, my dear.” Of course it is. “Now, about the ritual to undo the Tranquility.” There it is. Cassandra can probably make it over the balcony without breaking anything if she rolls just right. Vivienne takes a sheet of paper from her table and hands it to Cassandra.

“These are the Tranquil Fiona has at the tower. She wants to restore all of the Tranquil immediately, but I was able to persuade her that we might want to start with a smaller group, just in case the ritual goes badly.” Cassandra scans the list.  There are about twenty names, none of which Cassandra recognizes. When she looks up, Vivienne is watching her closely.  

“What do you want me to do with this list?” Cassandra asks.

“I want you to narrow it down to about ten people, darling. I would do it myself, but Fiona is reluctant to allow me too much access to her mages, lest I steal them away.” Judging by the little pack of apprentices Vivienne is teaching to be Knight-Enchanters, Fiona is not having much success.

“Why me?”

Vivienne arches an eyebrow. “You are a woman of impeccable moral credentials. No one can protest a list that comes approved by the Hero of Orlais. Now,” Vivienne leans over and marks three names on the list with red ink, “these three I know to have been involved in the aftermath of that mess in Kirkwall. They should be restored.”

Cassandra glances at the list. She’ll need to meet all of these tranquil and find out what circle they’re from, under what circumstances they were made tranquil, whether they have anyone waiting for them, and whether they would want to be restored. There are people voluntarily made tranquil, strange as that is.

“Did Fiona agree to this?”

“She suggested it,” Vivienne says, with a triumphant smile.

“I’ll do what I can,” says Cassandra, already thinking over her sources. There are probably some records in the library, and she can ask Cullen for anything that survived the journey from Haven to Skyhold.

“You always do,” Vivienne says approvingly. “One last thing. Stand there, would you? No, face the balcony.” Cassandra turns around. Vivienne makes a few humming noises, then asks Cassandra to lift her arms.

“Are you measuring me for clothes?”

“Yes, and they’ll be along in a few weeks. That sad armor padding you were wearing yesterday has no business existing anywhere anyone can see it.”

“I am not going to wear a dress while I practice, Vivienne!” Cassandra turns around and grabs for the list, ready to flee.

“Of course you’re not,” says Vivienne, holding the list out of reach. “You’re going to wear a nice Orlesian hunting tunic, with trimmed leggings woven to prevent unsightly sweat spots. It will even breathe better than that old thing you’ve got.” She scans Cassandra’s legs. “Red, I think.”

“Ugh,” says Cassandra, and grabs the list.

“You’re welcome,” says Vivienne. “If you run into any obscure rituals in the future, consider asking me about them, would you?”

“I asked Solas because he’s an expert on spirits,” Cassandra says stiffly.

“Yes, dear, I know.” Vivienne sounds faintly weary. “I am not telling you not to talk to Solas. Only remember that it can be useful to get multiple perspectives.”

“Yes,” says Cassandra, and flees.

 

Between the list and the stack of documents Fiona gives her to look through, it’s the next day before Cassandra remembers that she’s been meaning to talk to Varric about the red lyrium. She leaves the list on her desk, makes the sign against evil, and heads to the main hall.

Cole is standing at Varric’s table when she comes in, bouncing from side to side like an excited child as Varric attaches a large bow to his hat. Cassandra leans against the wall and waits.  Varric’s table in the main hall is like a miniature of Josephine’s, though it attracts a wider range of miscreants. In Kirkwall, Varric had put his boots up on the creaky tables of The Hanged Man like a king holding court, and everyone had flocked to him like courtiers eager to bend their knees. In Skyhold, he plays second fiddle to the Inquisitor, as everyone must, and his table is a trading post for gossip rather than a throne. Cassandra has been studiously avoiding asking him for information ever since the thing with Hawke, even though it grates every time she walks past his desk. She knows that he knows everything she could possibly want to know--the man is always talking to some courier or noble or servant when she walks by--but she has not been asking.

Cole leaves, and Varric goes back to his papers. There is no way he has not noticed her. Cassandra berates herself for a coward, then forces herself to walk up to the table and make eye contact. He had offered the information, and without rubbing the past in her face. Surely he will be willing to help her investigate.

Only he does not say anything. Cassandra can feel her face reddening, but she stays silent, not wanting to accidentally burst out with the wrong thing. At last Varric raises an eyebrow and saves her with a chuckle.

“Trying to intimidate me with a staredown, Seeker, or just still hungover?” The title itches like badly fitting armor. Cassandra is a word whose meaning changed when she wasn’t looking.

“If you want to keep--” Cassandra stops and reminds herself that she is trying to be polite, then counts to ten. “I have mostly recovered from my hangover, Varric. Thank you for the tea. Please, never invite me to a party again.”

“I can’t make promises I won’t keep. What brings you to my humble table?”

“The red lyrium.” Varric dims when she says red lyrium; his shoulders fold in, his arms cross, and his smile contracts.

“Not so loud,” he says. “You’ll scare the visitors--” and indeed, there are some visitors from Ferelden only a few feet down the hall. Cassandra sighs and leans in.

“The…red thing. Where did you find it?”

Varric’s mouth twitches in an aborted smile. “You sure you’re well enough to be chasing down red lyrium, Seeker?”

“I am only going to go and look around in the dungeons,” retorts Cassandra. “If I am well enough to stand, I am well enough to go take a walk in Skyhold.”

“No rest for the wicked,” says Varric, and sighs. “Well, I wouldn’t want you poking around by yourself.” He grabs Bianca and the two of them troop down to the dungeons. Cassandra’s head is throbbing faintly, and she wonders whether she’ll be able to hear the red lyrium over the thin, tinny ringing in her ears. They reach a small, dimly lit hallway, and Varric stops and gestures to the ground.

“This is where I found it.” They comb the hallway, Cassandra punching the wall periodically to check for hidden doors,  but there is nothing, no high note or sickly-sweet song humming through their bones. Varric is oddly silent and pensive--no, not odd at all, given what happened to Bertrand. After an hour or so of nothing but the eternal dust, Cassandra breaks the silence.

“Why did you invite me to the party?”

“I thought it would be funny,” Varric says. Cassandra does not believe him for an instant. She paws through recent events--the ritual, the fall of her order, this red lyrium. None of it has anything to do with Varric’s stony dislike of her. She wants to ask, but what’s the point? Varric will lead her in circles as surely as Vivienne flashes through battle.

“Okay.” Varric looks alarmed. “Are you feeling alright? Maybe we’d better head back.”

“Do you want me to interrogate you?” Cassandra asks. “I admit, it would be more fun than combing through all this dust. I could even find a railing and shove you against it.” This startles a rueful laugh from Varric.

“No need to sound so eager.”

Cassandra shrugs and kicks the wall idly.

“There’s nothing to find here,” she says. “I’ll--no--you should ask the servants where this passage leads. They will be more likely to be forthcoming with you.” Varric frowns at her and she shrugs. “And take whatever you find to Leliana. If you find a red templar, I would be happy to tear it apart, but Leliana is better with secrets than I am.” She heads for the stairs that lead back up to the hall and Varric follows her. On the stairs he catches her hand.

“I heard about your order. That sucks.”

“It is what it is,” says Cassandra. Varric looks like he’s going to say something, but then the door to the hall opens and Cullen steps into the stairwell.

“Cassandra, we need to talk.”

“Oof,” says Varric. “I didn’t even know the two of you were dating.” Both of them ignore him.

“Let’s go talk, then,” says Cassandra. Cullen’s face is drawn and tight, like the lyrium is troubling him again. “Varric and I were mostly done here.” She looks at Varric for confirmation and he shrugs.

“Far be it from me to keep you and Curly here from each other.” Cassandra waves goodbye to him and follows Cullen and up to the battlements, where he orders his patrolmen to cease walking back and forth and stand at the base of the nearest tower, twenty paces away. No one will overheard them unless they shout. It is, Cassandra thinks, not like Cullen to walk so fast, or speak so harshly to his men. When he turns, he’s got his legs braced like he’s preparing for a sweep. Cassandra mirrors his stance.

“You told the mages how to reverse Tranquility,” he says, his hand on the pommel of his sword. With another man, Cassandra would read it as a threat, and react accordingly. But this is Cullen, and the gesture is nothing more than what she does herself when she is unsettled and wants to feel steady.

“Not this damn ritual again. I did tell the mages. What of it?” She crosses her arms over her chest.

“You didn’t even tell me you found that. I had to hear it from Dorian, though you’d talked to me the day before.”

“I didn’t realize you were interested in Seeker rituals, Cullen.”

“This isn’t about the Seekers!” Cullen is unexpectedly loud. The guards at the base of the tower crane their necks. Cassandra stares them down, not wanting to look at Cullen’s face. “These rebel mages, this Fiona, they’ve got a list, and they’re planning to reverse the tranquility on every mage they know.” He steps forward, bears down on Cassandra with the scarce inches he has on her. She does not think he is trying to do it, only that he is angry. She could knock him to his death in a single sweep, the way his knees are locked stiffly together, but she will not. She is his friend.

“Yes?” she says.

“You don’t see the problem with giving rebel mages the power to make Tranquility completely pointless? I thought you, of all people, would understand.”

“Enough,” says Cassandra. She has been having this argument with herself over and over since she gave the papers to Solas. It is almost a relief to hear it out loud, to argue with someone who is not herself.

“Cullen, do you know of any mages who were made tranquil without a proper trial?” This is a trick question: when Cassandra went to Kirkwall she investigated Meredith as well as Varric. She and Cullen spent a night together in a cramped storage room with a tranquil scribe, looking through the names of the deceased and the silenced, making red marks next to those sentenced under improper procedure. They’d run out of red ink. Cullen flushes, his face ugly with anger.

“Yes,” he says.

“Those mages were failed by the Chantry and failed by the Templars. They were failed by the ancient Seekers, who should never have allowed such a ritual to become common practice, and failed by the modern Seekers, who should have intervened before such an atrocity happened. If now, Andraste has given us the means to restore something to these people, it is our duty to do so.”

“You sound like him,” Cullen spits. “He was always leaving these little bits of paper lying around talking about mages' rights.”

“Who?”

“Anders.”

Cassandra has nothing to say to this, so she ignores it.

“All people have the right to a proper trial before being sentenced,” Cassandra says. “What would you have me do? Abandon those whom we know were wronged?”

“And how many more will be wronged, when a new wave of demons emerges?”

“We have so many demons a few more will hardly matter! What would you have done? I am no mage, I cannot save the tranquil by myself! And they must be saved, and so Grand Enchanter Fiona must know. This is unworthy of you, Cullen. You are not a child, to cry because you are afraid of the dark. We have not fought off an army and walked through the mountains to be destroyed by mages and their hangover cure spells!”

“Do not joke about mages to me,” Cullen says, leaning in, and Cassandra starts to go for her sword on instinct. Cullen does the same-his sword is a few inches out of its sheath before he registers that Cassandra has stepped back and raised her hands in the air.

“Maker,” he says, and pushes his sword back into its sheath. “Cassandra. Andraste’s breath, Cassandra, I am sorry.” Cassandra puts her hands down.

“You idiot,” she grits out. The rage buzzing through her veins is transmuting itself into misery in an effort to be felt. Her head is throbbing, her face is burning, and tears are stubbornly gathering in her eyes. “I didn’t know what to do, Cullen! I didn’t know what to do, and then that demon--that spirit came by.” Her chin trembles. “I was made tranquil, Cullen. It is how Seekers are made. I read about the procedure, I saw my name on the lists. I-I had one of those things inside of me and I have still been able to do good in the world. I am still myself.” The tears have completely overrun her. “I think that I am still myself.” Maker, her voice is trembling. She has not disgraced herself like this for years.

Cullen hesitates and then pulls her into a tight hug. Cassandra should- she should pull away and return to her room rather than humiliate herself so, but Cullen’s arms are heavy and solid and she is so tired. She rests her head on Cullen’s shoulder and cried, close-mouthed.  

“I didn’t know,” Cullen says at last. “Cassandra, if anyone in this world is doing Andraste’s work, it is you. If you have been touched by a spirit, then it must be possible that it can come to good.” Cassandra cannot help the little sob that breaks from her throat at that. She does not trust herself to say anything without it coming out full of soppy self-pity, and so she stays silent. Cullen holds her until she steps away, wiping angrily at her face.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen says again. Cassandra does not have it in her to say anything truly cutting to him, not when her tears are still drying on his stupid fur stole. She glances away from him, her gaze skimming over the mountains that surround Skyhold. A chill breeze blows over the ramparts; she scrubs angrily at her rapidly cooling tears.

She forgets, sometimes, how Cullen failed his people.It is easier to pretend that he was only following orders, though they both know that Cassandra, who has killed more than one corrupt superior, considers orders no excuse. But Cullen has never failed her, and so she forgets. What good would it do to remember? They have all failed people. Cassandra can barely police herself and does not want to police Cullen. She wants to have a friend.

“I hate demons,” she mutters, and sits down on the parapets, her legs swinging over the long drop down.

“I hate them too,” offers Cullen, and sits a crenelation over.

“Do you hate them more than you want to protect mages?” Cullen winces and looks away from her, down into the drop.  

“I was not a very good templar,” he says at last. “Maker willing, soon I will be free of this lyrium, and then I will not be one at all, and you will be free of my failings.” Cassandra reaches across the parapet and punches his shoulder lightly. He looks at her, his face twisted in the moonlight, and speaks in a low, anguished voice. “You would have made a great Knight Commander. Better than Meredith.” It is almost a sob.

“A nug would have been better than Meredith,” retorts Cassandra, and puts her hand on his shoulder. They stay there until the changing of the guard reminds them of the time. Before they scatter to their rooms, Cullen turns to her, hesitant, and speaks softly.

“The funeral mass is tomorrow. Would you like me to go?” Cassandra’s throat closes. She jerks her head from side to side: no.

“There is no need,” she says. “You hardly knew them.”

“I know you,” says Cullen.

“Such faith. You sleep in. One of us should.” Cullen laughs at her: no doubt he will be up before her with his usual lyrium headaches.

“Is that an order?” Cullen gives her a mocking bow and Cassandra raps him on the forehead. Companionship is a funny thing: though she and Cullen part to different rooms, she can feel his presence from across Skyhold, as though they are sleeping side by side in the same vast barracks. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biweekly updates from now on. I have a job! Financial stability, here I come.   
> Shout out to my beta, blondeseagull, for being the best. Does anyone else feel weird about calling someone their beta in light of a/b/o tropes? 
> 
> Next up: The priest begins the benediction. “Daniel of Alamar, Seeker of Truth, killed in the line of duty, survived by Cassandra Pentaghast, rest at the Maker’s side. Davis of Val Colline, Seeker of Truth, killed in the line of duty, survived by Cassandra Pentaghast, rest at the Maker’s side.”
> 
> I almost convinced myself to write this story as Cullen/Cassandra with that last scene, but I think I like it better with them as shield-bros.


	5. mourning and night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Daniel of Alamar, Seeker of Truth, killed in the line of duty, survived by Cassandra Pentaghast, rest at the Maker’s side. Davis of Val Colline, Seeker of Truth, killed in the line of duty, survived by Cassandra Pentaghast, rest at the Maker’s side.”

Cassandra rolls over in bed and sleeps a few drowsy minutes more when the knock comes on her door, then sits bolt upright and dashes for her closet. The dragons on her mourning dress are looking slightly faded, as though they haven’t recovered from the drinking at the wake. She bullies one of them into sitting up straight, then hurries to the Chantry. There’s just space left at the back of the pews: she squeezes in between an old woman and a chevalier and relaxes.

The Chantry which seemed so vast and hollow when she sat through her vigil is simple and homey in the glowing light of day. The walls are solid stone, bare but for a few paintings provided by the faithful, and the smell of mountain air spills in through the open doors. Though the day is cold, there are enough pilgrims to fill the space with body heat. Cassandra dozes through the sermon, relying on her years of mandatory Chantry attendance to alert her when the ceremony ends. She snaps into alertness as the priestess finishes, and rises to give the people seated next to her the customary handshake and good wishes. The chevalier holds her hand a little too long, and she has to snatch it back.  

Handshakes completed, she sits down. The priestess waits until the room has subsided before she begins. “Today, we honor those who have given their life in the Maker’s name. Blessed are the law-makers, in whose actions the Maker’s will is shown. Maker, bless them and give us the strength to carry on in their name. Please rise as the dead known to you are called.” Cassandra straightens up and breathes out slowly through her mouth, adrenaline punching into her stomach. She’s never been good at waiting.  

Daniel’s name is the first one called. “Daniel of Alamar, Seeker of Truth, killed in the line of duty, survived by Cassandra Pentaghast, rest at the Maker’s side.” Cassandra stands, pierced by a hundred stares, starts to put her hands on the pew in front of her, then reconsiders and lets them hang by her sides. The priestess continues, oblivious to Cassandra’s embarrassment. “Davis of Val Colline, Seeker of Truth, killed in the line of duty, survived by Cassandra Pentaghast, rest at the Maker’s side.” Davis had been a tall man with pale hair and a habit of snoring in his sleep that drove Cassandra crazy during her first night sleeping in the recruit’s barracks. “Mariette of Honnleath, Seeker of Truth, killed in the line of duty, survived by Cassandra Pentaghast, rest at the Maker’s side.” Mariette had fought alongside Cassandra for ten years, and Cassandra has nothing more to give her than a night alone and a few words spoken by a stranger. She feels flushed and absurd; she wonders why she thought this would help. But it must be done, and there is no one else to do it.  

Cassandra listens to her companions as they slip away one by one, and thinks of the mages celebrating in the tavern, of Daniel’s face, of Varric’s face when he asked for Hawke. The list is longer than she remembers. When it is finally finished, the silence hits her like a blow.

“The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she will know true peace,” the priestess concludes. She makes direct eye contact with Cassandra. “Those who have served know your glory, and we will remember for them. Though we are few against the wind, we are yours.” The pilgrims repeat the blessing, the Chant of Light rising from a hundred throats.

“We will remember for them. Though we are few against the wind, we are yours.” Cassandra feels as though something has come unstuck in her chest. She stands numbly through the blessing, then makes a beeline for the doors. It is not successful. The chevalier catches her halfway down the pew and starts offering his condolences. Cassandra would ignore him, but he’s squared up, making it impossible for her to escape without tackling him. She scans over his shoulder, but no exit strategy presents itself.

“...the work you did with the Seekers was divine, but now, at last, you can put aside that part of your life.”

“No.”

“Ah, your devotion to work is great. But as beautiful a woman as you must be treasured, not allowed to slave away like a common soldier.”

“I am a common soldier.”

“Never,” says the man, and kisses her hand. “You are a Pentaghast.” If Cassandra can lift the Iron Bull over her head, it must be possible for her to lift this man up and use him to clear a path out of the chantry. She feels too aware of her hands, her surroundings, her stance. If this man doesn’t stop talking to her, she’s going to do something she’ll regret later.

“Seeker!” says a voice near her shoulder. It’s Varric. “Leliana is calling for you in the council room. She wants to talk to you urgently.” Bless Varric. She follows him through the crowd as he smiles and sweet-talks his way through the throngs of the faithful. By the time they break free, the tremble in her hands has faded. Leliana and Josephine meet them at the front of the chantry. Josephine catches the Orlesian noble as he stumbles after them, and Leliana whisks Varric and Cassandra away.

“Varric, thank you, truly.”

“Eh. All the lines in Kirkwall were like that, or worse. Not that I wouldn't mind seeing you beat up that Orlesian guy, but I think it would give poor Ruffles a headache.”

“Then I must especially thank you,” she says. “I am afraid I was about to hurt Josephine rather badly.” Varric chuckles and shakes his head. Despite the cold, he hasn’t put on a coat, and a large triangle of his bare skin is open to the chill mountain winds. His shirt is rumpled, as though he’s slept in it. Cassandra feels herself flushing, and resists the urge to reach out and fold his collar shut.

“It’s not a problem, Seeker,” he says. The nickname stings. Cassandra’s smile slips from her face, but before she can say anything, Leliana speaks.

“I do apologize for my countrymen, Cassandra. We in Orlais all admire you dearly. It was such a scandal when you saved Val Royeaux and we do so love scandal.” Leliana’s says scandal like a woman breathing out a lover’s name. Cassandra grunts in response. The three of them turn into a hallway and nod at a pair of passing nuns. “And with your new castles, you must be the most eligible woman in all of Thedas.”

“Castles?” Cassandra can sense that she’s not going to like what comes next.

“The Seeker Order owns three major castles that I know of,” says Leliana. “One in Orlais, one in Antiva, and one in Nevarra. Unless someone with a higher rank comes forward, they’re all yours.”

“Ugh.” Cassandra wants no castles. “I suppose Caer Ostwick is mine as well.”

“No need to sound so gloomy. Now you can retire and have five kids with an Orlesian noble.” Cassandra kicks Varric lightly and he scowls at her.

“I’d rather fight a dragon. Leliana, do you need a castle for anything? I will try to keep one in case the order grows again in the future, but we don’t need three.”

“Are you just giving away castles now?” Varric protests. “I’m hurt. I just saved your life, and you don’t offer me one.”

“You can have Caer Ostwick. Make sure you piss on Lord Lucius’ grave for me.”

“My goodness, Seeker,” Varric says, imitating a scandalized dowager. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I have all sorts of things in me you wouldn’t know about,” Cassandra retorts. She is not always so childish, but Varric has a way of breaking down her restraint. Varric just looks at her, eyebrows raised, and Cassandra feels herself turning pink. “If you’re going to make fun of me, I’ll give the castle to Cullen. Actually, if I have three, I can give one to each advisor. I tremble to think what Josephine could obtain with a castle as leverage.” Leliana laughs.

“Truly, don’t mention the possibility to her.”

Leliana stops the group with a wave of her hand and taps a solid looking piece of stone. They step out into the lower courtyard and the door clicks shut behind them, disappearing back into the side of the castle.

“Did you know that was there? I didn’t know that was there,” says Varric, staring at the wall behind them. “Some dwarf I am. Do you know all the secret passages here, Nightingale?”

“That would be telling,” Leliana says primly. Cassandra glances at Varric, then back at Leliana. It is not, perhaps, the best time to raise the subject, but Leliana and Varric are both here.

“Varric found some red lyrium,” she says slowly. “In the passage in the undercroft, the one that runs between the jail and the kitchen.” Leliana goes stiff, then folds her arms.

“I think you’d better show me.”

The three of them troop up to the main hall and then down into the undercroft, where Varric presents the passage with a showman’s flourish. Leliana looks at the corridor, frowns, folds her arms again, and strides around the corner. There’s the sound of stone moving and when Cassandra and Varric round the corner, a door has opened in the side of the corridor.

“I am the worst dwarf,” Varric mutters.

“No,” says Cassandra, surprised at the sensation licking at her exposed skin. “It’s magic somehow, isn’t it?”

Leliana nods. “An old friend gave me a pendant years ago,” she says, tucking something under her shirt. “It opens hidden doors.” Her hand lingers over the surface of her shirt and she smiles ruefully.

“This friend wouldn’t happen to be the Hero of Ferelden, would she?” Varric asks.

“No,” says Leliana. “Although I knew her in those times and she is, surprisingly, much closer than our esteemed hero.” A beat of silence, and then Leliana gestures to the tunnel. “In fact, I can ask her to make me another pendant, so that you and Cassandra can explore the tunnels.”

Varric groans. “Why the hell are we assuming I’m going down there?” he asks plaintively.  

“As a dwarf, you must be an expert,” Cassandra says with a grin. Varric scowls at her.

“As a dwarf, this reminds me of the deep roads. I hate the deep roads.”

“The deep roads were much worse than this,” Leliana says cheerfully. “I doubt there are any darkspawn lurking in bowels of Skyhold.”  
“Oh, well, everything’s just peachy, just as long as there aren’t any Darkspawn!”

Cassandra does not understand why Varric insists on complaining about things he does not have to do. She tells him so.

“Andraste’s tits, Seeker, you’re like one of those stone golems. Just let a guy complain, will you?”

“I could go down with Solas,” Cassandra points out. “The ritual is in three days, and I will be busy until then. But afterwards, I could go. My seeker abilities may be useful.”

“Excellent,” says Leliana. “You can go after the ritual. I’ll post someone down here in the meantime, just in case.”

The remainder of Cassandra’s day is spent in interviewing tranquil mages: asking whether they were made tranquil voluntarily and under which circumstances, and whether they would like to be able to feel again. Most of them would. Cole comes by after a few hours, but he barely talks, only sits in the corner and occasionally asks the Tranquil a question. She finished her interviews shortly after sunset, and sends the list to Fiona with a runner.

“You’re still here,” she says to Cole. “Shouldn’t you be with Solas, working on the ritual?”

“Solas told me to go away for his research. His hands were hungry to kiss her, fingers along the lines she lost.” That’s not research, thinks Cassandra, and flushes. It is very difficult to think appropriate thoughts in front of Cole.

“Your thoughts aren’t wrong,” Cole tells her earnestly. “You want to take care of people.”

“Why are you here, Cole?”

“You didn’t want to be alone. I felt you with Varric today, so I remembered. It made you feel warm. Varric is warm. He explains the story to me, helps me understand. Steel warrior, but she trembles at the sound of a word. Thought she was an idea, but she’s only pretending. She’s real.” Cassandra ignores the last bit, not wanting to pry into someone’s thoughts inadvertently. She glances down at her empty desk, then back up at Cole. She’s unsure how to ask her question, but with Cole the thought is the question.

“You want to know what it was like when they made you tranquil,” Cole says, and pauses, twisting the hem of his tunic between his fingers. “Want but don’t want. It pulls you. It’s all tangled in your head.” Cassandra wants to yell at Cole, wants to shake him until he makes sense, but he’s not the real cause of her anger.

“Can you help me?”

“I’m looking for it,” Cole says absently. “There’s all this light here. Stone barracks, stone bowls, stone beds. A year in waiting. It wasn’t like the Tranquil, no brand. You wanted it. It was peaceful. You were so angry, before. Anthony’s head bounced when it hit the ground. The blood of his body never let you rest.”

Cassandra straightens in her chair. She does remember the stone cells she’d stayed in for her Vigil. She’d been awful at meditating. Anthony’s death had been fresh in her mind and every time she’d tried to find peace in herself she’d found heart-thumping fury instead. She’d carried that anger with her right up to the Seeker altar.

“And I said: blessed are the righteous, whose eyes are lifted to heaven. As the flame sanctified Andraste, let your anger bring you to me, and I will make you a sword in my hand to smite the unholy.” The words ring oddly in the silent room. Though Cole’s mouth moves, it is not Cole’s voice that she hears.

“Cole?”

“No. It was--you know. You know who it was.”

“Faith,” Cassandra says, because she cannot say the other thing.

“Faith,” agrees Cole. “The two of you want the same thing. You see the better world. Then you make the better world.” Cassandra’s chest feels hot and tight, the small space of her study suddenly unbearable. She has been too long in this cramped room, listening to tranquil mages describe torture and imprisonment without a twitch in their dull faces.

“Thank you, Cole. Please leave.”

“I didn’t mean to--I didn’t help. I made it worse.” Cassandra gets up, grabs her shield, heads to the door, and then stops. Cole’s face is hidden by the curve of his hat, but his whole body is a sad slump of defeat.

“It will be fine,” Cassandra tells him. “Why don’t you go and see Varric? I’m just heading out to get some air.” She hurries out into the courtyard, her skin uncomfortably warm, her head aching with unease and anger. It’s dark. She usually spends the day training and heads back to her room at sunset, long before the moon rises and turns the courtyard into a maze of black and silver shadows. The moon is almost full tonight. When it reaches its zenith in two days, the mages will perform the ritual to bring back the Tranquil.  

Cassandra unsheathes her sword and begins laying into the training dummy. She slices at the head, the shield arm, the stomach and the neck, defending herself against the blows of an unnamed enemy. Her initial burst of anger spends itself in a flurry of blows and she pauses, panting. One of the Tranquil had almost been executed by Venatori mages before the Inquisition had rescued him. He had described the scene to Cassandra in detail: the blade, the Venatori, and himself, waiting as patiently as a training dummy for the blow. Cassandra’s strike goes wide and she stumbles, then yanks herself back to her training stance. She regulates her breathing and thinks of the moon, of Cole, of Varric, and lets her body act. Fighting requires thought, but the motions of a fight live on a level deeper than a thought for Cassandra: they are grooves long ago worn into the roads of her body.

I was tranquil once, she thinks, trying out the sentence. Her sword skitters off the training dummy, so she winds up again. I was made Tranquil, and a Spirit came to me and gave me my Seeker powers. It is the truth, but it feels like a lie; Cassandra knows it but cannot believe it. It has been almost twenty years since Cassandra became a seeker, but she still remembers the first time blue light ever spilled out from under her skin, tangible proof that faith alone is capable of changing the world. The seeker order has been a part of her ever since, deeper than the blood that spills so easily from her body, imbedded in her very muscles and bones. It is strange to think of the spirit that gave her these powers and stranger still to imagine that spirit under her skin, peering into the world through her eyes.

I was possessed by faith, she thinks, and the sentence seems a little less like a lie. Varric speaks of faith with embarrassment, but Cassandra wears hers with pride. A man who fights from outside the battle can measure the odds, but a woman whose job it is to run into the jaws of a dragon needs to believe. When there’s nothing but a piece of wood and a chunk of metal between you and death, you have to believe down to your bones that the shield’s going to hold and your strength’s going to last, or you stop being able to do it.

Faith, Cassandra thinks, tasting the word in her mouth. It feels like the name of an old friend. Faith, which says that despite unexpected betrayals and losses, despite murder and demons, there is still good to be done in the world.

Then let me be faithful, she thinks. Let the fields and forests burn. Seekers learn their skills along with a verse from the Chant of Light; they practice until the words and the action become one.  Cassandra’s body slides easily into the familiar stance as the Chant comes to her, her lips moving silently throug the verses. Let the seas rise and devour them, let the wind tear their their nations from the face of the earth. Light rises from the earth around her, as though impatient for the end of the verse, and she slams her sword down.

The blow shakes her body like a full body shout. Blazing daylight floods Cassandra’s vision and transforms the night to noon. Her breath rattles in her chest with the fine, fierce delight of it. Blue light gleams under her skin and pulls the edges of her mouth up in a madwoman’s smile. The light contracts, forming into a pillar, and then vanishes with a last pulse that rattles Cassandra to her bones. She stumbles, her mouth suddenly dry, and plops down on her stump, light-blind and weary. Grief has made her an apprentice again, throwing around her Seeker abilities with no skill or restraint. A thump, and then another thump, as little windows open around the courtyard and people peer out, probably scanning for another army of demons. Cassandra feels a sudden flush of embarrassment and she’s fiercely glad that no one notices her sitting quietly on her stump. As no demons are present, the windows click shut again one by one.  

The wrath of heaven destroys demons, but it does very little harm to anyone else. It has always been Cassandra’s favorite invocation. She has enough wrath for herself and the Maker. If she could be nothing more than a sword in His hand and do nothing but kill demons all day, it would be enough for her. And this, perhaps, is what Faith has turned her into. So be it. Whatever’s in her, it’s too deep to tear out now, no matter how much she pulls. Other people get affectionate nicknames from Varric, but Cassandra just gets her title.  And doesn’t that sum her up? Whatever she was before the spirit, she is an abomination now, and she does not know how to regret it. Faith percolates under her skin, faith raises her shield. Perhaps this is how the apostate felt, laying bombs in the foundations of the Chantry: towed by a thread so deep it would be impossible to pull it out without unraveling entirely.

“It’s been two decades,” Cassandra reminds herself, her voice strange in the silence of the midnight courtyard. Perhaps this is where the Fall starts: alone in a courtyard, talking to no one in particular. Still, twenty years is a long time, and she hasn’t done anything barbarous yet, hasn’t killed any children or set any explosions. It’s late, too late for doubts, too late to do anything. She is as helpless as she was when she found Daniel dying on the floor, when Justinia was murdered, when she rushed out in time to see her brother’s severed head hit the ground.

So be it. She will fight what she can fight. She will keep what she can keep. For now, she has Cullen, and Varric, and the Inquisition. It will be enough. She will make it be enough. Cassandra used to think that with enough work, you could protect the things that you cared for, but she doesn’t believe that anymore. Still. Even if you lose and lose and lose, you have to keep going. She has been working through tragedy since before she was a seeker, back when she was just Cassandra Pentaghast, down two parents and a brother. In victory, work. In loss, work. In grief, in despair, until death, there is always work to be done. Cassandra finishes training and hoists up her sword, then heads back to her room. She will have to rise early tomorrow to help with the preparations for the ritual.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! The next one will be up sooner.  
> My beta is the belle dame sans merci. I would fight a werewolf for her. 
> 
> Next up: Grand Enchanter Fiona calls loudly for everyone to go to their places and there’s a sudden rush as mages move to stations all around the circle. Cassandra and Cullen snap into guard positions, and Dorian gives them a sardonic little goodbye wave and goes to stand in the corner. Cole is flat on his back in the middle of all the complicated spellwork, a little island of red against the crowded lines of blue.
> 
> It's got to be incredibly traumatizing to find out that 1. you were possessed by a spirit without knowing, 2. you don't remember any of it and 3. it's the source of all your cool powers.


	6. exit from purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grand Enchanter Fiona calls loudly for everyone to go to their places and there’s a sudden rush as mages move to stations all around the circle. Cassandra and Cullen snap into guard positions, and Dorian gives them a sardonic little goodbye wave and goes to stand in the corner. Cole is flat on his back in the middle of all the complicated spellwork, a little island of red against the crowded lines of blue.

Preparations for the ritual last right up until the evening of the spellcasting itself. The mages buzz over their lyrium and spellwork while six of Cullen’s Templars lounge around the periphery, waiting to be sent to their stations. Two of the templars are talking to each other, three are staring straight ahead, steadily ignoring the dirty looks from the mages. One is chatting with a blushing mage who really ought to be paying more attention to her work. Cassandra is leaning against the wall with Cullen, whose eyes are steadily fixed on the ceiling. It is the only part of the room free from lyrium. Asking Cullen if he needs to leave would be stupid and an insult, so Cassandra leans over and whispers in his ear instead.

“How are those fraternization regulations going?” she asks, jerking her head in the direction of his men.

“We’re just friends,” blurts out Cullen hastily.

“I know we’re friends,” says Cassandra, and mentally picks through the list of mages she’s seen Cullen with lately. The Inquisitor? Unlikely. Vivienne? Impossible. She doubts Solas to be a lover of men, unlike Dorian. Hmmm. “I meant your templar over there,” she says. Cullen flushes red, the tips of his ears pink against his blond hair.

“Yes,” he manages, not lifting his stare from the wall across from them.  “Well, I suppose they’re not doing anything wrong.” This statement is profoundly suspect coming from Cullen, whose fear of mages is so deep-seated he barely notices it. Cassandra hopes he means it. Perhaps the scene on the battlements knocked some sense into him. If Cullen has got feelings for a mage, Cassandra hope it’s Dorian. Dorian is not one to tolerate prejudice, least of all in his friends.

“How... open of you,” says Cassandra. It is a feint, a trick to see how Cullen will respond. Cullen, as always, fails to distinguish from an actual swing.

“No, just resigned,” says Cullen, finally turning to face her. “First we were too soft, and there were demons everywhere, and then we were too hard, and there was a war. I suppose we’re due for some demons now.” He says the last in an exasperated drawl, mimicking Leliana’s drawl when she  she complains about fashion trends she doesn’t like in Orlais. A trivial tone for a serious subject.

“How pessimistic of you,” says Cassandra, just as Dorian comes up the stairs. “Perhaps we should ask Dorian what he thinks?” Cullen’s flush returns.

Dorian goes carefully around the spellwork, nods distractedly at Cassandra and Cullen, and plunges into a heated discussion with a circle mage. Cassandra hopes that they’re agreeing and not arguing. If the ritual can be argued about, it needs more time to be studied.

“What do you think about it?” Cullen asks abruptly.

“Demons?”

“No. You know. Fraternizing.”

“My last partner was a mage,” Cassandra says. It has not been a secret, but she has not told anyone at Skyhold either. There is nothing special about having lost someone to the explosion at the Conclave and nothing to gain by mourning in public. Regalyan is in her prayers, if nowhere else. “He helped me  with the dragons during the attack on the Divine. He was at the Conclave. He was a good man.”

“Blessed are the lights in the shadow,” says Cullen quietly. Regalyan would have laughed at the thought of a templar reciting the old funeral verses for him.  

“I would have died if he had not helped me,” says Cassandra quietly. “But instead I am alive, and I will see Corypheus’ head on a pike.”

“You sound like an Avvar,” says Cullen, and bumps her with his shoulder. “Will you also take up wearing animal skins and move to the Mire?” Cassandra tugs on Cullen’s stupid over-the-shoulder furs and Cullen shoves her away playfully.  

“What are you two up to?” Dorian has apparently finished whatever work he was doing.

“Work,” says Cullen. “Templar business, very serious.”

“Ah, yes, serious templar business,” agrees Cassandra.

“How… thrilling,” says Dorian. “Really, I don’t know why I asked. Hope springs eternal, I suppose. Clearly my expectations for Cullen are entirely too high.”

“How Tevinter of you, Dorian. Cullen has been working hard on a new policy for templar fraternization, to prepare the order for a new onslaught of demons.” Cullen frowns at her.

“Cassandra, on the other hand, plans to reach out to the Avvar by adopting their cultural customs.”

Before Cullen can finish explaining Cassandra’s new life path,  Grand Enchanter Fiona calls loudly for everyone to go to their places and there’s a sudden rush as mages move to stations all around the circle. Cassandra and Cullen snap into guard position, and Dorian gives them a sardonic little goodbye wave before he goes to stand in the corner.

Cole is flat on his back in the middle of all the complicated spellwork, a little island of red against the crowded lines of blue. His hat is over his face--if Cassandra didn’t see his chest rising and falling, she might think him dead. The mages begin to chant. Surprisingly, it’s from the Chant of Light, one of the passages about compassion and seeing the Maker’s face in all things. The tranquil woman who has been chosen to go first stands blindly in the circle, eyes looking without seeing.  

It was different when Cassandra did this, she thinks, although she can’t remember why she would think so. The chapel had been underground, the roof high and filled with a silence so thick Cassandra had had to wade through it. Cassandra’s footsteps had seemed immense, loud, clumsy. Embarrassing, to stand before the Maker in a physical body, to have to drag the proof of all her sins with her. She had looked up, and seen...

Something has gone out of Cole and into the circle. The spellwork closest to him begins to glow with a cold light. The light spreads through the dips and whorls of the spellwork until the room is filled with an unbearable gleam. Cassandra blinks away tears.

Sorry, Cole says in her ear. Cassandra blinks and the light is gone. The spellwork is still glowing, but only faintly. Without being able to say how, Cassandra knows that Cole’s body in the center of the circle has become a corpse, nothing more than a cracked jar. The tranquil’s head snaps upward and her eyes stare fixedly at the ceiling. She jerks, her whole body twisting. A long thin gasp comes from her lips and Cassandra tenses, but no black smoke pours from the woman’s body. Solas sits at the edge of the circle, eyes closed, his lips moving as he whispers to Cole. A sound without sound, and the ritual is complete.  The woman’s head comes down and she scans the mages, her head snapping back and forth like a trapped animal’s. A tall woman in yellow robes pushes her way out of the small knot of people, calling softly to the frightened mage.

“Vosta, Vosta,” she says, and the former tranquil whirls to face her. Cassandra can almost feel the moment their eyes meet, like a key clicking into a lock, like a scene from one of Varric’s serials.

“Alastene,” Vosta says, and burst into tears. She stumbles drunkenly to the edge of the circle, where Alastene pulls her into a tight hug.

“I didn’t miss you,” Vosta sobs.

“I missed you,” Alastene says fiercely. She and Vosta had been at the Kirkwall Circle in the days before the war. A templar had found Alastene’s escape tunnel, but not Alastene. Afraid that her friend would be executed as a multiple offender, Vosta had confessed to trying to escape, and the templars had made an example of her. Alastene’s voice had been very calm when she explained despite the tears dripping down the side of her face. Sooner or later, all mages that lived in Circles picked up the ability to cry quietly.

After the explosion, Alastene had dragged Vosta’s tranquil shell all the way to Redcliffe looking for a way to save her. It is the sort of loyalty that Cassandra wishes the world would reward more often. Vosta looks up at Alastene and brushes the tears from her face with a trembling hand. A smile splits her face.

“We made it,” she says. Alastene’s face crumbles. They make their way to the door, still clinging tightly to each other, Alastene mumbling apologies under her breath, Vosta whispering back, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Cassandra’s face feels hot and tight as she blinks back tears. Fortunately, no one is looking at her. The room shakes with the sound of applause as Alastene takes Vosta down the stairs.  

The next tranquil is sent into the circle, and the ritual begins again. As she had promised Vivienne, Cassandra had looked through the history of all the tranquil mages, had interviewed and asked and talked to the Tranquil themselves. Cassandra had barely felt anything then. It had been nothing but work, and work demanded nothing but calm, regardless of whatever tragedy might be in front of her.

Now, as the second tranquil mage stumbles from the circle into the arms of his crying sister, Cassandra has to dig her fingers into her palms to keep from crying. Tragedy is easy, happiness is hard. The third tranquil is too overwhelmed to walk, so her father carries her down the stairs crying and this, too, feels like victory. More tranquil are saved. More people shuffle forward to receive their loved ones--a soldier, reunited with his sister, a son, embracing his mother for the first time in years. But for the most part it is mages who come forward to welcome their friends and lovers back into the world of the living.

The ninth tranquil emerges from the ritual wide eyed and blinking and is immediately dragged into a messy group hug by a knot of his friends. None of them look to be a day older than twenty.

“One left,” announces Solas.

They finish the tenth ritual and the final tranquil stumbles from the circle. Fiona herself comes out to speak to him and Cassandra wonders if she knew him, but no--his reaction is wrong. This mage didn’t have any close family or friends available, but Fiona specifically asked for him to be freed, and Cassandra found no reason to disagree. Fiona puts her arm around him and starts to talk quietly. Cassandra relaxes just as Fiona jerks back and flops bonelessly to the ground.

“They’re all dead!” the mage screams. A sick miasma creeps out over the room and the screaming begins. Cassandra's stomach lurches, her hands begin to shake, and she reaches blindly for her sword. She misses, her hand skidding emptily into the darkness. Run, she thinks, run, get down the stairs, get away--

Next to her Cullen reaches for his sword and the movement brings Cassandra back to herself. The mages are stampeding down the stairs. Dorian and a few others unaffected by the spell have run to the edge of the circle and slammed their palms to the ground to try and stabilize the spellwork.

“Solas!” she screams across the noise. “Will a spell purge help?”

The question comes too late. A wash of blue light screeches across the ritual lines. One of Cullen’s templars must have shaken off the blast. She sees Fiona throw up a barrier and then the world fills with white.

Cassandra comes back to consciousness with the sound of ringing in her ears, but the room is silent. No battle. She takes stock of her body: hands, unbound, limbs, unbroken. Ringing ears, slight damage to head, not too much dizziness. She opens her eyes cautiously. All around the room, the mages who had been helping with the ritual lie limp on the ground, thrown by the careless hand of the explosion. She squints at the shapes moving through the room--it’s Fiona and a few mages she doesn’t recognize. Next to her, Cullen is slowly rising to his feet, a thin line of blood running from his nose.

“Come on,” she says to him, and uses the blade of her sword to stagger to her feet. Her ribs are aching and her mouth tastes like blood. She suspects she’s bitten her tongue. Cullen staggers up next to her, using the wall for support, and they survey the scene. Solas is in the center of the circle, crouched over Cole’s body and next to them the former tranquil is beginning to stir.

Cullen draws his sword and rushes to stand over the former tranquil.

“No,” says Fiona. She tries to move her fingers, but the spell fizzles between her hands.  Her face is gray with tiredness, probably from healing the mages.

“Cass?” Cullen says, and Cassandra goes to stand next to him, preparing a spell purge.

“Has anyone got a sleep spell prepared?” Cassandra bellows. If a terror spell hits these passed-out mages, they will seize, bite their tongues, go into spasms, turn into terror demons, or just die. Terror is a disgusting branch of magic--she’s going to make the next bunch of tranquil tell her every spell they’ve ever learned before she approves them.

In the deathly stillness of the aftermath, Cullen raises his sword.

“I’ll get it,” says Solas, and the former tranquil rolls onto his side, asleep. Cullen lowers his sword to a guard position and stands over him, the very picture of a templar jailer.  Cassandra goes to the stairs and looks down.

“We’re boxed in,” she announces. “They’re removing the wounded from the stairs. We should wait up here until they’re done. Solas, how’s Cole?”

Solas’ voice is hoarse when he looks up.

“Cole is gone,” he says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: “Thanks,” he says, and takes a seat on the next bed. “Dorian definitely thinks we’re sleeping together now.”  
> “Good luck with that.” Cullen is good looking enough, Cassandra supposes, but she’s never been one for barracks romances. It is its own kind of love to know that a man will draw his sword and die by your side. Cullen mistakes her thoughtful stare and flushes, self-conscious.  
> “You look like you’re considering it.”  
> “No, thank you. I know you too well.” Cullen laughs and shoves her shoulder.  
> “Pass the damn bottle.” He takes a drink. Cassandra watches his throat move and thinks, inexplicably, of Varric.  
> “So,” she says.  
> “So?”  
> “Are you going to sort out Dorian?” Cullen chokes and hastily puts the bottle down. Cassandra steals it back. 
> 
> Finally earning that secondary ship tag. ; )
> 
> This chapter brought to you despite Fallout 4 and three days of camping without internet. I accidentally made myself way more invested in my lesbian mage OC's than I intended. Shout-out to my beta blondeseagull for her stellar work.


	7. compassion and control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final count of the ritual is this: nine mages rescued from tranquility, one mage asleep and in limbo, four templars and six mages with concussions, three broken limbs from the explosion and a fourth from the panic on the stairs, too many bruises for anyone to count, and Cole’s empty body.

The final count of the ritual is this: nine mages rescued from tranquility, one mage asleep and in limbo, four templars and six mages with concussions, three broken limbs from the explosion and a fourth from the panic on the stairs, too many bruises for anyone to count, and Cole’s empty body. Cassandra, Cullen, Dorian, and Solas head down to Solas’ room, out of the way of the ongoing cleanup efforts.

Solas is encasing Cole’s body in ice, in case the spirit finds a way to return. Cassandra is by parts devastated at Cole’s disappearance and embarrassed at her own reaction. Cole is a pest, a threat, an invisible killer and the worst threat to privacy Cassandra’s ever seen. He is also a confused young man trying to do the best with the means he has, and a true and loyal ally to the Inquisition. He is a spirit, and if Cassandra doesn’t count it against herself that she has communed with a spirit of faith, than she shouldn't hold Cole’s nature against him.

“Is there any way to summon him back to his body?” Dorian asks. Solas, wounded and irritable, has refused his offers of help in freezing Cole’s body.

“Don’t try to talk about ritual magic, it only reveals your ignorance,” Solas snarls. Dorian sneers and starts to advance on Solas, but Cullen grabs him gently by the shoulder and shakes his head. To Cassandra’s surprise, Dorian obeys the implicit order to stand down.  

“It’s not Dorian’s fault,” Cassandra says, and meets Solas head on. “It’s my fault. I asked him to participate in the ritual. If there’s anything at all than I can do to bring him back, let me know. Cole deserves better than this.” Solas stares at her with his level gaze, and Cassandra feels awkward and stupid, as though she’s blundered stupidly into his grief. Her gaze drifts to Cole’s lifeless body and Solas looks with her and then sighs, his fingers brushing lightly over the ice.

“As always, you maintain your nobility. But Cole would have wanted to help. I should not give him up for lost so quickly. He may still be found somewhere the fade.”

“Then find him,” Cassandra says.

“Yes,” says Solas, and nothing more. Cassandra considers herself a decent judge of people, but she has never been able to pinpoint Solas’s age. The single syllable ages him a decade, perhaps more.  Cassandra has seen herself in the mirror enough lately to spot what regret looks like, and while she can't smooth it away, she can at least leave him to grieve in private.

“Drinks?” she says to Cullen, who look as exhausted as she feels.

“What, I’m not invited?” Dorian says.

“You’re not, but you can come too,” Cassandra retorts. They head to the barracks. Drinks after a battle doesn’t mean the tavern, it means a bottle of warden moonshine while the two of them wash their cuts and bandage each other. It’s an old templar tradition, to make sure no one goes off alone and dies of unnoticed wounds.

Dorian walks with them until the barracks and then pauses and folds his arms.

“Why, Cassandra,” he drawls. “I didn’t realize you were capable of innuendo. Flattered as I am by your invitation, I am sadly immune to the beauty of your charms.”

“Don’t be a tit, Dorian,” Cassandra says, and leaves Cullen to wrangle him. The barracks are warm and empty, the golden light of evening filtering in through the upstairs window. The beds on the top level are an emergency extension of the infirmary, and are mostly unused. Cassandra grabs the flask from the box behind the books and takes a long swig, then sets to work tugging off her boots. When Cullen comes up the stairs, she’s gingerly picking little shards of glass out of her sleeves.

“Thanks,” he says, and takes a seat on the next bed over. “Dorian definitely thinks we’re sleeping together now.”

“Good luck with that.” Cullen is good looking enough, Cassandra supposes, but she’s never been one for barracks romances. It is its own kind of love to know that a man will draw his sword and die by your side. Cullen mistakes her thoughtful stare and flushes, self-conscious.

“You look like you’re considering it.”

“No, thank you. I know you too well.”

Cullen laughs and shoves her shoulder. “Pass the damn bottle.” He takes a drink. Cassandra watches his throat move and thinks, inexplicably, of Varric.

“So,” she says.

“So?”

“Are you going to sort out Dorian?” Cullen chokes and hastily puts the bottle down. Cassandra steals it back.

“Cass…”

“Don’t Cass me, Ser Rutherford.” Cullen flops onto his back and frowns at the ceiling.

“Maybe?” His face is turning pink. Cassandra reaches across the narrow gap between their two beds and smacks his side.

“Maybe?” Cassandra doesn’t like to admit it, but she loves listening to petty barracks gossip after a long day. “Hopefully?”

“Can you stop seeking the truth for five minutes?” Cullen’s grumble is halfhearted at best.

“I can,” says Cassandra, taking another swig of the moonshine. It tastes like leather, pepper, and bitter hell, exactly how Cassandra likes it. She stretches and sighs, unbuckling her pauldrons and laying them on the floor. She can feel without having to look that there’s a bruise forming on her lower back.

“How bad is it?” she asks Cullen, hitching up the back of her shirt.

“Not too bad,” says Cullen, and laughs. “No wonder Dorian gets the wrong impression off of us. He’s from a big house, probably never had to share a room. I still can’t get used to sleeping alone.”

“It feels unsafe,” Cassandra agrees. “If you do sort him out, make him learn healing magic. Regalyan knew some, and it was blessed useful.”

“Sort him out…this is going to be a thing, isn’t it? You’re worse than a mabari.” Cullen has unbuckled his pauldrons and shrugged off his armor, leaving him in his padded, sweat-soaked tunic.

“That must be a compliment coming from you, Ferelden.”

Cullen snorts.

“You sound like Vivienne.”

“Maker preserve me.” She hasn’t really talked to Cullen since their fight on the battlements, as the research on the tranquil has been her world entire. She’s not sure how long his crush has been percolating, but looking back on the morning where she found him in the library with Dorian, she thinks it’s been a while. Regret twinges low in her stomach as she remembers Regalyan and his smile, the way he made her bruises vanish with a touch. The triumph of the day smoothes the pain a little, and she thinks unexpectedly that Cullen would have liked Regalyan, and that if he hadn’t, she would have beat him into it.

“I hope it works out for you,” she mumbles. Cassandra’s not sure when she falls asleep, but when she wakes up she’s lying in bed with a blanket over her shoulders and Cullen’s in the hall speaking with someone in a low, angry rumble.

“...half-baked southern templar idiot!” That’s Dorian’s voice. Cassandra sighs and half-heartedly kicks the blankets off her legs. She doesn’t want to listen to Dorian and Cullen argue--it’s none of her business. She pulls on her boots with a groan and staggers to the door. The nap has given her bruises time to develop in full force, and her entire torso pulses with pain every time she takes a step forward.

They’ve gone silent in the hall. Cassandra sticks her head out and sees that Cullen has backed Dorian into the far wall. They are standing closer than common decency allows. Perhaps Cassandra ought to help Dorian escape? Dorian catches her eye over Cullen’s shoulder and scowls at her. Perhaps not. Cassandra retreats back into the dormitory and starts scanning for an exit route.  She’s on the second floor, but there’s a pile of crates under one of the windows. She leaves her armor for Cullen and Dorian to trip over and makes a speedy exit out one of the windows. Both of them are going to owe her a lot of drinks later.

“In a bit of a hurry?” jeers Sera, causing Cassandra to jerk around guiltily.

“Dorian kicked me out to have his way with Cullen,” Cassandra informs her. As revenge goes, this is better than any number of drinks. Sera’s face lights up.

“About time! Hey, I didn’t think you approved of that kinda thing.” Cassandra’s ribs hurt and she wants nothing more than to collapse into her bed.

“Fucking? Sera, if Dorian wants Cullen, he can have him.” It comes out more annoyed than she meant it to, but Sera doesn’t seem bothered. She laughs crookedly and slaps Cassandra on the shoulder.

“Didn’t know you could swear, neither.” Cassandra shakes her off and heads back to her room, ready to kill the next thing that comes between her and rest.

A knock on Cassandra’s door rouses her from sleep. From the light slanting under the door, it’s nearly noon. She decides groggily that this offense probably isn’t worthy of death and grabs her sword, throws on a coat, and yanks open the door.

“Seeker! I always took you for a morning person, but from the look on your face, you’re clearly not.”

“I will dump you over the railings,” Cassandra informs Varric, and crosses her arms. The motion makes her back ache, but she ignores it.“What do you want?”

“Solas is summoning Cole back and he wants your help.”

“Me?”

Varric just shrugs, then turns and leaves. Cassandra hurries after him.

“Why me?”

“Vivienne doesn’t get along well with the kid, Tiny won’t go into the Fade for love or money, Sparkler is already helping, Sera and Blackwall are away with the Inquisitor, and I’m a dwarf.”

“We’re going into the Fade?”

“Guess so. Glad I’m a dwarf. I’ve been to enough bullshit places without going into the Fade again.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to tell Cole you miss him,” Cassandra informs him tartly. Varric stops and places a hand over his heart.

“Why, Seeker, that almost sounded like you care.” Cassandra grunts and keeps walking.

“Well, aren’t you peppy this early in the late afternoon. Did you hurt your head during the explosion at the ritual? You are aware that you’re wearing a bedrobe in broad daylight, right?”

Cassandra snorts. “I once fought an invading bandit force in my smallclothes and breastband.”She’s vaguely aware that she’s usually more careful with her words around Varric, but she’s too sore and tired to edit what comes out of her mouth very much.

“And were the bandits impressed?”

“I didn’t ask them before I killed them. Maybe I should have. But the other Seekers were impressed. We started a yearly smallclothes tournament. The winner didn’t have to take watch for a month.”

“And here I thought not having fun was part of the job description.”

“Oh, it is. Now that I’ve told you this, I’ll have to kill you.”

“I thought Seekers of Truth weren’t supposed to lie,” Varric accuses.

“I never lie,” Cassandra says. It takes all her concentration not to laugh, but it works. Varric squints at her and then shakes his head.

“Not bad. It helps that you already have that ‘stiff-necked soldier about to snap’ vibe. If you could just keep that up while playing Wicked Grace, you might not lose all the time.”

“Thanks,” Cassandra says dryly. They’ve reached Solas’ room. Varric pauses, then claps her on the lower back.

“If anyone can beat the hell out of that Fade, it’s you.”

“Thanks,” Cassandra says, flushed and pleased. She can feel the heat of his hand through the bathrobe. She should go- enter the room, help Solas- but instead she stands, pinned by the soft pressure of Varric’s touch. Varric’s eyes widen and then narrow as something soft and careful flickers on his face and vanishes.  

“Huh,” he says, and walks out of the hall.

Cassandra makes an irritated sound in the back of her throat and heads into Solas room. People are so mysterious.

She forgets her irritation with Varric when she sees Cole’s lifeless body encased in ice at the center of Solas rotunda. Someone, probably Solas, has placed three sleeping platforms in a triangle around the corpse, and drawn a complicated sigil of spellwork on the floor. Two of the platforms are empty: one is occupied by a single candle.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” Solas says.

“Cole deserves better than to be stranded in the fade,” Cassandra says.

“If more people were like you, the world would be a better place.”

“There would be less demons, and more beer and tournaments,” Cassandra agrees.

“Truly an ideal world,” says Solas, his mouth bowing under the pressure of a suppressed smile. “Sit down on the bed and I put you to sleep. It will feel strange, but you must resist the urge to do a spell purge. I will meet you in the fade and we will call up Cole. It is my hope that he has not traveled very far.”

Cassandra lies down on the bed. She has many useless questions for Solas about the nature of the ritual, but she swallows them. Solas is a comrade, and she ought to trust him rather than tormenting him with useless questions. She forces her muscles to relax and focuses on her breathing. Between an exhale and another exhale, Solas’ magic washes over her body, tingling, grating washing over her nerves. Cassandra sucks in a deep breath and swallows her initial resistance, and sleep takes her.

A knock on Cassandra’s door rouses her from sleep. From the tired fog in her head, it must be near midnight. Groggily, Cassandra grabs her sword, checks her armor in the mirror, and yanks open the door.  

No one’s there, but there’s a note on the ground.

“Come to my room. You’re in the Fade. I need help summoning Cole back.” Memory rushes back to Cassandra and she staggers with the vertiginous sensation of plummeting into sleep and has to steady herself on the doorframe.

“Maker’s Balls,” she swears, and takes a moment to get her bearings. The Skyhold of the Fade looks much like the castle she’s used to, tall, grey, and crisscrossed with glowing elven spellwork. The spellwork looks different in the real world, although she’s not quite sure how. Even as she stares, the lines on the wall twist and shift. Cassandra’s stomach twists with nausea.

“It’s just a dream,” Cassandra reminds herself, and hurries down to the main hall, head down, trying not to make eye contact with the transparent people filtering through the courtyard. She reaches Solas’ room, puts her hand on her sword, and goes in.

Instead of murals, Solas room in the fade is decorated by memories. Moving images flash on the walls and people scream, laugh and retreat. Here, the Inquisitor charges into a knot of Ventori, there, Sera lifts an arrow to her bow and fires. Cassandra stands mesmerized until a low growl brings her back to her senses and she drops her gaze to the floor. Shimmering lines of spellwork cover the floor, but they do not carry the same compulsion to look as the walls. A large wolf is sprawled in the center of the room, watching her carefully.

How useful it is that Solas has a pet, Cassandra thinks, and something about the thought catches at her, though she’s not sure what. Solas has always been accompanied by his wolf. Steps echo in the room and someone taps her on the shoulder.

“You can look up,” Solas says. “I have created precautions to avoid being disturbed in the fade. I did not realize that they would affect you.” The memories on the walls fade and become murals again, allowing Cassandra to see that the room is a copy of Solas rotunda. The room contains three people: herself, Solas and Dorian, who has his back to them and is staring out a window at the skyline of what must be Tevinter.  The wolf at the center of the spellwork rises and begins to pad over. Standing, it is almost as tall as Cassandra.

“How did you bring an animal into the fade?” Cassandra asks, curious.

“Truly, you live up to your name as a Seeker of Truth. But let’s not tarry. We’ve got to find Cole.”

“We’ve got to find Cole,” Cassandra repeats. Her body feels strange, like the worst combination of blood loss and a hangover. Like she’s floating. Solas peers at her and frowns, then hands her an amulet. At the touch of Cassandra’s hand it twists and transforms into a familiar book.  Swords and Shields, Volume Two. Cassandra turns it over in her hands.

“What is that?” Solas asks.

“Sword and Shields, Volume Two.” Solas seems slightly annoyed.

“What does that have to do with Cole?”

“I read it to him once,” Cassandra tells him. After the  fight with Varric, Cassandra had retreated to her room and drunk until she was miserable, then curled up with the book. At the chapter break, she had looked up to find Cole sitting at the foot of her bed. Naturally, she had thrown the book at him, but he hadn’t complained. The night was a blur of alcohol, but Cassandra remembers Cole bringing her tea and sitting by her as she read the book, asking her questions about the characters as she wept silently. Solas must guess something of what happened from her expression, because he merely nods and asks her to stand at one of the corners of a triangle of spellwork and read.

Cassandra goes. The first few sentences are awkward in her mouth, but as she speaks the memory takes hold and grows, until she can feel the sticky humidity and warmth of the summer air and smell the sourness of spilled wine. The room appears before her, lit by the lazy glow of late sunset. In her memory, Cassandra is half-dressed and huddled on the bed with two bottles of water, and Cole is perched on the edge of the bed.

“Get out, demon!” Cassandra shouts, and throws the book. The throw goes wide and Cassandra starts out of the bed, trips on her bedsheets and sprawls onto the ground. Cole rises and retrieves the book, then brings it to Cassandra, who has begun to weep.

“I do not wish for the kind of consolation that you offer,” Cassandra spits, and scrubs a hand across her eyes.

“I’m not going to do that,” Cole says, holding the book out to her. From outside the memory, Cassandra notes that he’s treating her like a wounded animal. The Cassandra in the memory snatches the book back and cradles it to her body.

“I thought he would understand,” she chokes out. “I thought from the way he wrote, that he knew that I was only trying to help.”

“He knew,” Cole says. “He’s made himself forget for Hawke. But he came to help, like you.”Cassandra makes a low keening noise and sets the book down with a thump.

“Then why did he lie?”

“He wanted to protect her.”

“Protect her from me,” Cassandra whispers. “I would only have asked that she help.”

“She would have said yes,” Cole says, and scoots in beside her. “That’s what he was afraid of.” Anger flares on Cassandra’s face and then vanishes.

“At least we didn’t lose her, too,” she says, and hangs her head. The silence stretches out, and for a long moment there is no sound.

“Read to me,” Cole says. “The thing you’re looking for is in the book?”Cassandra picks up the book and opens it, eyes skimming over the first page, and reads the first line.  Some invisible line stretches and goes taut. The sensation is like a thought shoving its way out of the fog of sleep and the prickle of being watched.She keeps reading and the sensation grows stronger and stronger, until every word is a struggle. Her vision is blurring. She grits out a last word and something breaks with an audible pop. The windows of her room explode outwards, and Cole taps her on the shoulder.

“I’m here,” he says.  The memory dispels like a fire going out and between one blink and the next Cassandra is back in the rotunda with Solas and Dorian. The center of the spellwork is filled with a soft, rapidly shrinking glow. The glow narrows to a point and then the form of a young man appears with a loud pop.

“Cole!” Cassandra says.

“Watch out!” Cole says, and points behind her. On instinct Cassandra throws herself to the left and barely misses being impaled on the bladed edge of a staff.

“Demon!” says Cole, pointing with one of his knives. “It’s in the castle!” Cassandra whirls and brings up her shield just as a blast of ice washes through the room.

The demon has taken Vivienne’s face and clothes, but the yellow gleam of its eyes is wrong. It makes Cassandra feel sick, to think of Vivienne possessed, and she comforts herself that Vivienne is too self-assured to ever give herself to this creature.

“And for Compassion, they opened a door, but what came through was Control,” the demon mocks, and attacks. It moves in a blur, like Vivienne, and when it comes into focus next to Dorian, it has his form and face.

“No!” screams Dorian, and smashes into it with a gout of fire. The two of them duel, trading blasts of fire and lightning. Cassandra rushes forward to help and then freezes, afraid of hitting the wrong person. One of the combatants drives their staff into the side of the other one’s knee and that Dorian crumples to the ground. The tip of the staff slices through the air in a perfect arc aimed for the fallen Dorian’s throat.

Dorian’s too flashy to make a move so efficient.  Cassandra throws herself forward, knowing she won’t make it in time to deflect the blow, but Cole is faster than she is. The blow glances off of one of his knives. A barrier springs up around him and Dorian, but the demon doesn’t attack. It seizes Cole by the collar and tosses him across the room, only to be speared by a flash of lightning from Solas. Cole blurs and disappears in mid-air, then reappears behind the demon and shoves his knife into its back. The floor trembles like an earthquake and the demon roars, blurs, and vanishes. Cassandra brings up her shield just as the demon’s blade thrusts for her throat, and the duel begins.

The demon is faster and stronger than Cassandra, but it’s not much of a swordsman. After the first few blows that make her shield-arm tremble, she’s able to anticipate its attacks. It probably hasn’t had to deal with many swordsmen here in the fade. An idea occurs to her.

“Give me a barrier!” she calls. The demon makes her pay for the moment of distraction with a swipe that scratches her face, but the white light of a barrier encloses the two of them.  It doesn’t matter. A barrier won’t stop what she’s got planned, but it might protect her in the counterattack. Two minutes until the barrier drops, she thinks, and launches an attack, slashing and stabbing at the demon. The demons reels back. Cassandra retreats instead of advancing, lifts her sword to the sky and screams at the top of her lungs.

“Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven!” A heavy pain burns through her side, the demon taking advantage of her opening, and then the ceiling of the roof crumbles and light floods in. The demon freezes in mid-swing, transfixed by a sword of holy light that impales it from shoulder to knee. Cole pulls Cassandra backwards as Dorian and Solas send blooms of fire racing through the air. The demon is barely visible through the onslaught of spells, but Cassandra watches it warily.

The ground shakes, and the demon vanishes, leaving behind only a whisper.

“I’ll see you on the other side.”

Cole hurries to the door of the chamber and closes and bolts it, then slumps on the floor.

“Control chased me all night!” he wails. “I couldn’t come back to my body because it wanted to possess me!” Cole has, Cassandra thinks, never looked more like the young man whose body he is inhabiting. Solas hurries to comfort him.

“Cole,” he says gently, and gives Cole a hug. Cole clings to Solas until Solas pulls away, and then sighs and slumps down.

“I want to go back to Skyhold,” he says.

“We can go back right now," Solas promises. He turns to Cassandra. “I doubt you’ll remember this when you wake up, but thank you. It would have been difficult to retrieve Cole without your help." 

"Thank you," Cole says. "I'll see you at home!" 

The ground cracks and splits open and Cassandra crashes through the floor and wakes, gasping, in Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Cole releases Cassandra from the hug, beaming. It makes him look like an ordinary young man.  
> “I wanted to help! Rethread the needle, bring back what was cut. Solas wants to do it again next week, but I want to get rid of the demon first.”  
> “Demon?” says Cassandra.  
> “Oh, you don’t remember. There’s a demon in the castle. The red crystals showed him the way.” Varric seems just as confused as Cassandra.  
> “Kid, do you mean there’s a demon physically in Skyhold right now?”  
> “That’s what I said!”
> 
> Sorry for the long wait! Between work, plane rides, and my cousin's wedding, I haven't had too much computer time. I've also come down with a horrible case of Fallout 4, so there will be some fic from that game going up soon. 
> 
> Real talk, Dorian thought they were inviting him to a threesome.


	8. cracks in the armor

Josephine has returned to Skyhold, and by her presence alone the level of courtesy in Skyhold is significantly elevated. When Cassandra wakes, her side aching with what she recognizes as broken ribs, Josephine is there with a healer and a tray of summerwine.

“Did we get Cole back?”

“I’m over here,” Cole yells, and wanders over. Cassandra tries to sit up, but Josephine pushes her gently back down. Cole’s head appears next to Josephine’s. “The demon hit you with its sword,” he says. This is news to Cassandra, who can barely remember anything that happened. At least Cole is back.

“Well, she’s going to have to get healed before she fights any more demons,” Josephine says kindly to Cole. “Why don’t you go talk to Solas?”

“Okay,” says Cole, and wanders off. Cassandra sits up, although it makes her ribs scream and her vision blur.

“I’m not getting healed here,” she says to Josephine through gritted teeth. “Too many spectators.”

“We can go to my office,” says Josephine serenely, and holds out her arm. Cassandra staggers into Josephine’s office and lies down the floor. The little mage Josie brought with her is looking more and more concerned.

“It’s nothing,” Cassandra says with a grunt. “I’ve had way worse. I broke my leg and arm fighting that damn high dragon, but no one ever mentions that part.” Oddly, this fails to reassure the healer.

“Truly,” the healer says in a thick Orlesian accent, “you are as formidable as the legends claim. May I touch your skin?” Cassandra nods. At least there isn’t much to remove. The mage opens Cassandra’s robe and, blushing, puts her hands on Cassandra’s chest.  A jolt runs through Cassandra’s torso and her muscles constrict.

“I picked up several marriage proposals for you in Val Royeaux,” Josephine says. Bless her, she must know how badly Cassandra needs a distraction from the healing. “I think one of them is even serious. I assume you’re going to reject all of them.”

“Of course,” says Cassandra. She notes dimly that her stomach is sporting a nasty set of bruises that she doesn’t remember getting. “How was your trip?”

“Nothing to speak of,” says Josephine airily. “I admit, I was a little surprised to see a plume of smoke rising from Skyhold.”

“Only a little?” Healing magic punches into Cassandra’s chest. She can feel her ribs straining, like a blow in reverse, but she breathes out slowly and tries not to clench her muscles. Healing is work for both the healer and the healed, and it is Cassandra’s job to hold still and be quiet. Josephine pauses and Cassandra tries to straighten her features into a neutral expression. Judging by the expression on Josie’s face, she fails, but Josephine is kind enough not to laugh.

“You know how Dagna is,” she says, as though Cassandra’s ribs are not currently trying to punch through her skin. “And if it’s not Dagna, it’s Sera with her flasks or Varric with his mines. Two weeks I was gone, and Sera’s carved something rude into the rafters of Cullen’s office.” Josephine sounds more delighted than vexed. “She got drunk for your party--I wish I could have been there. Vivienne taught everyone to do fireworks.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“It’s rare for you to get drunk in public,” Josephine says, tapping her chin with one finger. “I’ve only ever see you do it at fancy banquets, when you’re trying to avoid talking to people. Oh! And that one time your cousin visited with a crate of wine. And that time with the baron who wanted to talk to you about Seeker initiation sex rituals.” The grating of Cassandra’s ribs releases all at once and Cassandra sucks in a deep, relieved breath.

“It’s time to do your back,” the healer says, sounding regretful. Cassandra doesn’t remember injuring her back, but there’s no arguing with healers. Josephine watches the two of them with a gentle little smile. Cassandra has never liked diplomats very much, but Josephine is too kind to resist. In a different world, they would have been courtiers together. Cassandra is glad not to live in that world, but she always feels a little twinge when she looks at Josephine, a reminder of fates avoided.

“What were we talking about?” Cassandra asks.

“Your party. At least tell me that Cullen didn’t lose at Wicked Grace again. He’ll give up on the game entirely, and I’ll have no one to tease.”

“He was in his room the whole night,” Cassandra confirms. Thinking of Cullen makes her face flush. She saw Dorian briefly in the Fade, but they didn’t really have a chance to talk.

Her back twinges, as though to remind her that she’s still being healed, and she balls her hands into fists.

“Oh! And I hear you had a midnight rendezvous with our very own commander?”

“Ugh.” Cassandra is going to find those guards and knock them off the ramparts. “It wasn’t anything as exciting as that. Cullen is otherwise occupied.”

“Oh?” The pretty little exclamation belies the sudden light of interest in Josephine's eyes.

“As if you don’t already know,” Cassandra accuses. “I’m sure Sera can give you a more detailed account than I can.”

Josephine giggles.  “It may surprise you, but I’ve only been back since this morning. I haven’t had the chance to hear from Sera yet, as she’s still sleeping off a hangover.”

Whatever the mage behind Cassandra is doing, it feels like being dipped in cold water. The sensation intensifies and then stops.

“All done,” announces the healer.

“What’s your name?” Cassandra asks, twisting to face her.

“Avis,” the healers says, ducking her head.

“Thank you, Avis.” Avis flushes and then gathers up her things and flees.

“It looks like you’ve got an admirer,” Josephine comments. Cassandra has no comment other than an irritated grunt. She puts her head in-between her knees to wait out the post-healing nausea.

“I did notice that Dorian has some bite marks,” Josephine says thoughtfully. Cassandra snickers.

“A new weapon for you to deploy against Cullen at the war table,” she says.

“I would never,” Josephine says, pretend-prim. “Wine?”

“Yes.” Cassandra’s nausea has passed enough for her throat to feel terribly parched. She chugs down the elfroot tea, waits a few seconds to see if she feels nauseous, and deems it safe to have some of the summerwine. Meanwhile, Josephine is rooting through a pile of packages. Cassandra watches her warily. At last, Josephine emerges triumphantly, clutching a tunic.

“I brought back the tunics Vivienne ordered for you!” she announces triumphantly.

Shit, thinks Cassandra, and realizes she’s only in her bathrobe. The tunics are, unfortunately, comfortable, beautiful and don’t restrict her movement, so she has no excuse not to wear one. She puts on the blue one and escapes from Josie into the main hall. Vivienne is at her usual spot, so Cassandra hurries up the stairs to go thank her.  Varric whistles as she walks by and if she turns red and hurries up the steps a little faster, no one else needs to know.

Vivienne dismisses her thanks with an imperial wave and a smile.

“We should go to Val Royeaux together,” she says, a gleam in her eye. “I haven’t helped anyone put together a new wardrobe in years. Nothing too stiff for you, of course -- the challenge would be finding clothes to go with your lifestyle. Leliana could help.” From the way Vivienne says it, it sounds like Leliana would be helping hold her down. Cassandra flees.

It’s been a long day already, and it’s barely past noon. Cassandra heads out of the hall, only to bump into a passing noble.

“Sorry,” Cassandra says.

“Ser Pentaghast!”

 _Shit_ , thinks Cassandra.

“I have an important meeting with the commander,” Cassandra says, and shoulders past the noble.

“I would love to meet him as well,” the noble says, and hurries after her. Cassandra walks faster. A point against Vivienne’s tunic: it is so very noticeable. She heads for the ramparts, the Orlesian still following her. When he tries to block her way up the stairs, she vaults over the side and breaks into a run. He keeps following her, so she heads for Cullen’s office. Cullen isn’t in. In a fit of desperation, she climbs up into the loft.

“Hello, Cassandra,” Dorian says, startled. “Why are you climbing into Cullen’s--”

“Shhh,” hisses Cassandra. The door creaks open and there’s the sound of someone tromping heavily in, pausing, and then running out.  “Thank the maker. Blasted Orlesians.” Dorian pulls the covers off his legs and gets out of the bed. He’s naked to his waist, and appears to just have gotten up.

“I saw you in the Fade,” she says. Thinking back, she hadn’t seen him in Solas’ room, although she hadn’t been paying attention. Dorian winces.

“Solas came barging into my dream and got me.”

“Why couldn’t he have done that for me?”

“Mage,” Dorian says. “Back to the important questions. Mainly: do you always try to escape by climbing into Cullen’s bedroom? People will talk.”

“I was hoping he’d be in so he could cover for me,” Cassandra mutters. “Where is he?”

“Working, I suppose,” Dorian says. There is an obvious bite mark on his shoulder. Cassandra’s eyes track to it and she glances away.

“Ah, yes,” says Dorian, rubbing his shoulder self consciously. “Is this the part where you threaten me for corrupting your wonderful Cullen?” Cassandra frowns at him.

“Why would I?”

“You know, going against the Maker, the sacred bonds of Chantry friendship, evil Tevinter sex magic, the usual.”

Cassandra and Regelyan tried a variety of things, but none of them were sex magic per se. Then again, Regelyan wasn’t from Tevinter, and there’s all sorts of things Cassandra hasn’t heard of.  “I wouldn’t try any sex magic on Cullen,” Cassandra says. “He had a rather unpleasant experience with a desire demon.” A thought strikes her. “Wait, does evil sex magic actually exist?”

“Sort of,” says Dorian, looking desperately uncomfortable. “You know, I’d much rather have you threaten me than talk about this.”

“I’m sure I’ll hear about anything really weird you try either way,” she says reflectively. “Barracks gossip and all that.” She hadn’t been sure it was possible for Dorian to look more horrified, but he does. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” Dorian appears to be temporarily speechless.

“The south is awful,” he says, and puts on his shirt. A snicker wells up from Cassandra’s throat, and before she can stop herself she’s laughing helplessly, propped up against Cullen’s shitty bed frame.

“Sorry, it’s just--” Dorian’s mustache is crooked. Cassandra loses herself in a wave of laughter.

“I think I liked you better when you were being too serious.”

“Sorry,” Cassandra says, not sorry at all. “Your mustache is crooked.” Dorian corrects it in the mirror and then frowns at her.

“Is this what you’re like with Cullen?” Cassandra shrugs. “It is, isn’t it.” He shakes his head and heads for the stairs, then pauses and sticks his head out the window. “All clear. Your Orlesian is gone.” He pauses awkwardly and stares at her.

“Yes?”

“You really don’t care?” he blurts out.

“Dorian, I’m almost 40. Do you see me giving any children to my bloodline? If I cared about things like that, I’d be back home in Nevarra with six children and a castle.”

“40, really?”

Cassandra frowns at him.

“No, it’s just… you look younger. Never mind.”

“You ran away from Tevinter to come and help. I respect that, even if you are... yourself. The sort of person that puts gel in their hair.”

“Thanks ever so much for that last bit,” Dorian says, palming the back of his neck. It’s such a Cullen gesture that Cassandra has to smile. “Because this was getting uncomfortably sincere.”

“Were you expecting a diplomatic answer?”

“I was more expecting a comment about how you were going to cut off my balls,” Dorian admits. “Then I was going to laugh and flash away in a swirl of fire. I’ve been practicing the flash and everything.”

“It might be useful in the field.”

Dorian makes a _tch_ sound. “Always so practical.”

Cassandra shrugs. Dorian glances out the window and frowns.

“Looks like your Orlesian is on his way back,” Dorian says slowly. “I could still laugh and flash away in a swirl of fire.”

“You’re a true friend, Dorian.”

 

Cassandra sneaks down the ladder and into the kitchens, where she spends a good thirty minutes eating everything the scullery maids will give her, and then staggers back to her quarters and takes a nap.  When she wakes, it’s early evening, and her bruises and aches have all vanished like the hand of the Maker wiped them away. _The Maker bless all those mages who use their power for good ends_ , she thinks. Lacking anything to do, she meanders down to the lower courtyard, where Cullen is teaching some recruits how to block.

“Shields up!” barks Cassandra, startling the ones in the back. “You, come to the sparring ring with me.” The chosen soldier looks terrified. Cassandra goes through the paces with him, showing how to block, how to lift his shield, how to deflect a strike. She sends him back to drills, then heads for the sparring ring. The Iron Bull is teaching some of the older recruits how to hold their ground by scaring the piss out of them.

“Cassandra! Heard you had some problems in the Fade. Ready to hit something more substantial?” When he says it that way, it does sound appealing. Besides, what’s healing for, if not to make you ready for more combat?

“I could go for some light sparring,” Cassandra says with a smile.

“You don’t have your armor on,” says a particularly brave soldier.

“I don’t need it.”

Cullen jogs up to the edge of the sparring ring about an hour later, just as Cassandra’s taking a break.  The lack of armor serves as a nice handicap when sparring with recruits. They put too much faith in their cheap armor, and not enough of a premium on dodging. Cassandra is teaching them to be wary of fast, unarmored opponents with maces.  None of them are in any danger of getting past her shield.  A circle of people has formed around the sparring ring, cheering on the soldiers as they lose one by one. Oddly, the more people Cassandra defeats, the more excited everyone gets, including the defeated.

Cassandra’s lost track of the number of matches, but she thinks they’re somewhere between six and nine. The cluster of people has the added bonus of hiding her from any passing noblemen looking for the heiress to Caer Ostwick.

“Getting to know the troops?” Cullen asks.

“Raising my morale. I’m considering stripping off the tunic too. I could beat these recruits in my breastband armed with a stick.” Cullen snickers.

“They’ll be talking about you all over camp by the end of the day.”

“I should make these noblemen fight me in a duel for my hand, like that prick did with Josephine.”

“I don’t think I’ve read that one. Of course, I’m not as much of a book lover as you are.”

Cassandra shoves him.

“Good thing, too, since there’s so much fire magic near your office lately.”

Cullen pinks and glances nervously from side to side, but the soldiers are occupied jeering at the next person due to spar with Cassandra.

“You didn’t do anything to him, did you?”

“We had a short conversation,” Cassandra snaps. “Really, why does everyone think I’m the defender of your virtue?”  

“Maybe you should spend more time with Varric,” Cullen suggests in an obvious deflection. Cassandra punches him in the shoulder.

“Maker help me, I will beat you up,” she hisses. Cullen looks delighted.

“It’s true,” he says, and dissolves into laughter.

“It’s true?” Cassandra says, and realizes who’s been talking to Cullen lately. “After I kill you, Dorian is next. I’m going to cut off his arm and beat him to death with it.”

“I’m sure you say that to everyone,” Cullen manages through his laughter.

“Oh, someone’s smug just because they have a boyfriend,” Cassandra says in an undertone. Cullen goes pink again, but he doesn’t stop laughing. “Did you have something for me, or are you just here to torment me?” Still chuckling, Cullen takes out a pendant and hands it to her over the fence.

“Leliana wanted me to give you this. Apparently you should be careful not to break it.”

“Noted. By the way, you should teach your recruits better shield discipline. They keep lowering their shoulders when they swing.” Cullen snorts.

“Try not to break them. I’ll go over the basic technique before the next set of drills.”

“Right,” says Cassandra, and hands the pendant back. “Hold these while I demonstrate.” The next recruit is a man with the muscles of a farmer and the shield technique of a squire. “This won’t take long.”

 

Afterwards Cassandra scrubs herself down in the camp showers, then heads back up to the main hall feeling pleasantly clean and tired. She really should find a way to thank Vivienne that conveys that she’s honestly grateful and also that she really doesn’t want any more clothes.

Cole is at Varric’s desk when she comes in, chattering excitedly about something.

“Glad you made it back,” she says to him.

“You helped,” he says, and hugs her. Cassandra stands there for a moment, then timidly hugs him back.

“Thank you for bringing the Tranquil back,” she says quietly. Cole releases her from the hug, beaming like any ordinary young man might.

“I wanted to help! Rethread the needle, bring back what was cut. Solas wants to do it again next week, but I want to get rid of the demon first.”

“Demon?” says Cassandra.

“Oh, you don’t remember. There’s a demon in Skyhold. The red crystals showed him the way.” Cassandra stares at Varric, but he doesn’t seem to know what Cole’s talking about either.

“Kid, do you mean there’s a demon physically in Skyhold right now?”

“That’s what I said!”

“Red crystals…” Cassandra says slowly.

“Red lyrium in Skyhold,” Varric says. “Damn it.” Cassandra hasn’t fought a demon since the last time she was in the field, before this business with Lord Lucius, before the wake, before the ritual. It will be good to return at last to her normal duties, even if she’d prefer to fight the demon someplace other than Skyhold.

“Cole, is there any chance that the demon can attack us in our beds?” Cole pauses and stares vacantly at the wall, then speaks.

“Bound by my prey, caught in the funnel. Red and blue, red and blue. Together, we all hate her. Soon, their eyes will be mine.” He shudders and shakes his head. “No, it’s bound somehow. It is the binding.”

“Well, that wasn’t as reassuring as I would have liked,” says Varric. “Are you going to drag me demon hunting tomorrow, Seeker?”

“Did you want to stay behind, Varric? I could always bring you some red lyrium as a souvenir.”

“Don’t be sassy with me, Seeker. I can’t deal with it. Did Nightingale get you the pendants, then?” Cassandra holds one up so he can see it, then places it on his desk.

“I’ve never been less happy to receive an expensive gift,” he mutters.

 

They meet the next day after breakfast, Cassandra in her full armor with a field kit strapped to her back, Varric with Bianca and a sack of traps.

“Are you looking forward to this?” Varric demands when he sees her coming up the stairs. “You’ve got that pre-battle glow going.”

“I do not have a pre-battle glow,” Cassandra says, and stifles a smile. She is looking forward to it. However powerful this demon may be in the Fade, Cassandra has faith that she will be able to destroy it in real life.

“You absolutely do,” Varric mutters, and they head down the stairs, Cole jogging behind them like a strange lost puppy. Varric turns his attention to him.

“You know, kid, I think you hate the Fade more than Tiny, and let me tell you, Tiny really hates the Fade. Why is that? Aren’t you from there?”

“The Fade sucks,” Cole says crossly, and Cassandra snickers.

“No wonder you guys are always trying to leave,” Varric says.  “Makes Chuckles’ constant trips there even weirder.”

“Solas is strange.” Cassandra agrees. “As a mage, you would think he would want to stay as far away from demons as possible.”

“Mages. Always up to some weird shit. Sunshine was the only reasonable one I ever met, and look what happened to her. At least she wasn’t at Adamant.” Cassandra tries to remember who Sunshine is. When she’d first met Varric, she’d thought his use of nicknames was a way to throw her off. Now she thinks that he just gives people nicknames compulsively, like he’s got a grudge against their real names for not suiting them well enough.

“Sunshine and sadness, a poison drink, grim duty for a bird of the skies.”

“New topic, kid.”

Cole pauses on the steps and looks around.

“Cassandra wants to get go. Oh! Not to the Fade. She wants to find the red lyrium. What’s that doing here? It must be lost.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to upset Cassandra,” says Varric, who has beat out a spirit made flesh, a Tevinter necromancer, and a semi-immortal demonic magister for the position of most upsetting person in Cassandra’s life.

They tramp down to the door, earning weird looks from a serving maid who must be one of Leliana’s people because she pauses when she sees them and frowns, as though comparing them to a mental list, then keeps walking.

The door swings open with a rush of magic that makes Cassandra’s skin prickle and the three of them stare into formless darkness. Cassandra digs a torch out of her pack and tries to hand it to Varric, who doesn’t take it.

“I need both hands for Bianca!”

“I need both hands for my sword and my shield, which is going to be between you and anything we find.“

“I’ll take the torch,” says Cole. Cassandra frowns and hands it to him.

“Don’t wander off,” she instructs him.

“Yeah, kid.” Cole nods and frowns into the darkness below.

“There’s something there,” he announces. “It sounds nice. I don’t like it though. I think it’s a lie.” Cassandra and Varric frown at each other and Cassandra hoists her shield and heads into the darkness.

 

They take the tunnels sloping downward, Cassandra marking the walls with  a piece of chalk. She left a note with Leliana before she left: if they’re not back in a day, she’ll put together a search party.

It’s dark and damp, and the air is sluggish with dust and the smell of things dying by inches.  The torchlight rises and falls to the jerky rhythm of Cole’s steps, illuminating splatters of old blood on the floor.

“Now, that’s just great,” Varric says. “Why did I let Leliana convince me to do this? I should be in the Hanged Man drinking ale with my feet on the table. I should be working on my novel.”

“You could tell Cassandra about the novel,” Cole suggests, waving the torch around enthusiastically. “She likes reading.”

“Cole, torch,” Cassandra hisses, trying scan all the corners at once. Her heart’s racing. She’s never liked this part of investigations; give her something to _hit._

“Is that why you brought me down, Peaches?” An awful flush spreads across Cassandra’ cheeks, and her traitor heart thumps even faster. Varric’s given her another nickname.  “Hoping for a sneak preview? Not even the weirdest thing I’ve ever had a fan do.”

“Varric,” Cassandra manages, her voice sticking in her throat. She’s turning red. Maker, please let the torchlight hide her face. “Please concentrate.”

“She’s embarrassed,” Cole says. “Oh, and now she’s mad.”

“Cole.” Cassandra says. Cole stops talking.

“No need to take it out on the kid,” Varric says. “We were just making small talk, you know, distracting ourselves from the crushing weight of the castle and our search for the world’s angriest mineral.” The tunnel dead ends in an abandoned hallway, the end of which is blocked off by debris. Three doors are set into the hallway, their frames buckled and twisted.

Cassandra squares up and slams into the closest door. The wood splinters, but doesn’t break.  

“So eager to leave my sterling company, Peaches? I’m insulted.” Cassandra ignores Varric’s commentary, back up, and slams through the door again. This time, it breaks, and she goes crashing into a small, moldy bedroom.

“No red lyrium,” Cole says, and frowns, then turns and points to the door across from them. “The nice sound is coming from that way,” he says. “But also the yelling.” Varric raises Bianca and points her, Cassandra lifts her shield, lets Cole steps out of the way, and barges through the opposite door, which swings open and dumps her on the floor of a cavern lit by the eerie light of red lyrium. Cassandra’s whole body hums like a chord on a harp and the sound of singing blares in her ears. She scrambles to her feet, careful to keep her shield held high.

“No!” Cole says, and there’s the sound of a torch clattering onto the ground. Cassandra gets her back to the wall, shield still raised.

“Varric?” she demands, pulse racing.

“Kid’s gone,” Varric says. The light rises, and Cassandra risks turning her head slightly to glance backwards. Varric is holding the torch in one hand, Bianca in the other.  There’s a worried crease in his forehead.  “He poofed.”

“Do you think it was the red lyrium?”

A groan cuts Varric’s reply short. In the torchlight, the largest pile of red lyrium crystals shifts and raises a hand.

“Maker,” breathes Cassandra and scans the cavern. No obvious lines of spellwork or ice runes glow on the ground, so she hurries forward. A man lies on the ground, fastened to a pillar by a collar around his neck, red lyrium glowing through stitches on his arms. His voice screeches like a bird aping human speech.

“Maker! Maker,  those traitor mages took me. They put it in me. They put this thing in me.  Get it out. GET it OUT!” The man’s voice builds to a manic scream, a wordless screech with more pain than meaning. The sound echoes from the walls and ceiling, mingles with the song of the red lyrium until Cassandra’s ears ring with it. There’s a light in the darkness, just beyond the red lyrium -- a little magelight, like Dorian likes to use in dark tunnels.

The man’s screaming comes to a wheezing stop, and the sound of footsteps echoes in the cavern. Varric fires a bolt into the darkness, but it goes wide. Anger leaping in her veins, Cassandra charges forward into the dark.

A burning flare of magic catches her foot and travels up her leg and along her spine in a hot caress. It licks at her skin, surrounds her like water, tugging at her skin, slowing her movement. Under her feet, a glowing circle flares into existence. Cassandra’s muscles tighten, bracing helplessly for the blow, hand moving too slow to raise her shield. Her mouth burns, fire rushing into her lungs, and she feels the stirrings of something moving within her.

Her sword completes an arc. She throws her shield aside and grasps her sword, ready to attack. The man on the floor cowers from her; she swings her sword, cutting him down. The splatter of blood feels so good, so right. Cassandra swings again, and the man’s head topples to the floor.  Triumph washes through her body and she turns, stalking, ready to ruin the next target that crosses her path. Someone’s whispering in her ear, someone’s got their hands on her skin. She can’t think. Another fight, and she’ll feel better. The room’s gone red. Someone is screaming. It’s her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Er. Let's not talk about the wait. I blame fallout. This demon has been chilling in the basement waiting for Cass for almost a year at this point.  
> \- I always though it was weird that Cass didn't get a real nickname from Varric. He's really sore about the whole interrogation thing.  
> \- When you think about it, Cass will soon be past the age where she can have kids, if she's isn't already. Since her family is all dead, that will end her part of the family with her. Man, I made myself sad.  
> \- Shout-out to soundssimpleright for looking over my chapter!


	9. the faithful (varric)

Possession is a piece of fucking shit. Like losing your virginity, or getting shot, you never forget your first. Cassandra’s no mage, but there’s no mistaking the spastic twitches, her muscles shaking and bucking, trying desperately to adjust to the intrusion. The cloud disperses. Cassandra takes a long, rattling breath. Her jaw shuts. She is still. Varric dares to hope that she’s shaken off the demon with her seeker powers, and then she swings her sword. The chained man’s head hits the floor with a thunk.

Cassandra screams, high and wounded, and continues to stab the body, bitter obscenities pouring from her mouth. Varric snaps from his haze and fumbles a fistful of explosives onto the floor. Cassandra is  ten paces from him. Her head snaps towards him, eyes lit with red. Varric runs. Behind him Cassandra screams, wordless. Son-of-a-bitch. What kind of new bullshit is this? Varric runs as fast as he can go, scattering caltrops and explosives behind him. The first round of explosives go off; Cassandra screams.

“Varric!” she shrieks. The demon has found her words. “Liar! Deceiver! Thief! Come back here and face me!” That’s a no. Varric can’t recognize the corridor he’s in; he’s going to die in this fucking tunnel and deserve it because he’s the worst dwarf ever. His chest is burning. Despite everything -- the caltrops, the traps, the blind sprint -- it’s not long before Cassandra catches him. He hears the footsteps, and then he’s sent sprawling, struck by a force that sends him tumbling through the air, pain spreading across his legs like a brand. He strikes the wall and stumbles up. There’s a sound -- a pop, almost -- the sound of Cole appearing, and a clang. Varric glances back, unbelieving. Cole’s blocked Cassandra’s downswing.

“Demon!” Cassandra yells, which is unbearably ironic, considering. Well, not technically irony, and now really isn’t the time to be dwelling on this. Varric scrambles to his feet and runs for the far wall. At the door, he chances a glance back. Cole and Cassandra are engaged in the sort of insane fucking swordplay that Varric couldn’t sell his readers on his best day. Whatever the thing is that’s got Cassandra, it doesn’t care about defense; it’s all attack, attack, attack, each blow following seamlessly from the previous one, almost faster than Cole can dodge. Demons have no imagination.

Varric hesitates. He turns, fires an arrow and the thing -- Cassandra -- shrugs it off and shoves her sword between Cole’s ribs. He vanishes in a puff of air. Cassandra charges, her sword uplifted, and for a moment Varric sees death.

The blow never comes. Cassandra sways above him, hands shaking, and screams, then rips her pendant from her throat and throws it at him. Her knees hit the ground. She grasps for her sword, body shaking, then throws her blade aside, gasping for breath. There are tears in her eyes. Varric runs for the door.

He fumbles the secret door open with shaking fingers, then runs blindly into the hall. He’s got to -- he’s got to tell someone. Leliana. He runs into the war room, and finds Dorian and Cullen bent over the war table.  Good enough.

“Cassandra,” Varric gasps out.

“Cassandra’s not here,” Dorian says, frowning.

“No,” Varric says, choking on the words. “A demon has got Cassandra.” Cullen rises, sword in his hand, face white as linen. “The dungeon,” Varric says, raising the pendant. Cullen snatches it and takes off at a dead run, Dorian chasing after him. Fuck. Varric screams for them to wait, but it’s too late. He turns around, wheezing, and chases after them, back down into the dungeon.

At the open door he stops, forces himself to think. He finds a passing maid, tells her to find Solas and bring him to the main hall, then hurries into the dark.  The sounds of battle rattle through the halls; Varric approaches with every inch of stealth he can manage. When he peeks into the cavern, Dorian is lying on the floor. His arm has been cleaved nearly from his body, right on the little strip of bare skin at his shoulder. Varric remembers Cassandra telling him to cover it with a sick lurch. Above Sparkler’s prone body, Cullen is dueling Cassandra for his life.  Varric raises Bianca and waits, sweat trickling down the back of his neck, sick with the fact that he’s aiming at the Seeker. Aiming, aiming... now! The arrow knocks Cassandra back, and Varric fires again, pinning her.

“Run!” Varric yells, and Cullen hesitates. Cassandra is climbing from the floor. “Dorian’s hurt!” Cullen scoops the mage up and runs. They make it out, barely, and Cullen seals the door behind them. Leliana comes hurrying down the steps, daggers drawn, and freezes at the sound of Cassandra’s voice.

The thing inside of Cassandra is screaming on the other side of the door. “Cullen! Coward. Traitor.” Her voice lowers to a growl. “Come in here and die, die like you should have died in Kirkwall, die like you should have died with your Circle. You followed Meredith’s orders to the grave, now follow mine. Come and kill me like you killed all those mages. Let me die, as I should have died at the Conclave! Open this door!” Cullen’s face has gone white.

“She doesn’t mean it,” says Dorian, holding up a hand spotted with blood. “It’s not her, that thing attacked me, for god’s sake.” Cullen makes a horrible low sound deep in his throat. It’s almost a scream.

“Of course it’s not her,” Cullen says. “It’s a demon. A demon has got Cassandra.” His eyes flicker to the door and Varric wonders if he’s thinking about Meredith. Now is not the time for a joke about his bad luck in superior officers. There’s another round of screaming and pounding on the door, each blow shaking the stone like a giant’s footsteps.

“Let me out,” Cassandra screams. “Cullen, do the right thing for once in your life!” Cullen looks stricken in the dim light, and for a tense moment his gaze goes to the door.

“Cullen,” Dorian says, his voice a throaty gasp. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I am bleeding quite a lot.”

“Oh,” Cullen says, and carries Dorian up the stairs. Perhaps the thing on the other side of the door can sense them leaving because it starts to scream, high and wordless, like red lyrium given words.

They reach the upper halls of Skyhold. Cullen drops Dorian on Solas’ desk, and the work of healing begins. The cut is just short of fatal. Another inch and Cassandra would have sheared straight through Dorian’s bone and taken off his arm. Vivienne, Leliana and Josephine come running into the room, and Varric stumbles through an explanation of what’s happened.

“There may be other exits to the catacombs,” Vivienne says. “Post guards. Cullen, go with Josephine and rally your people.” Cullen goes. Vivienne and Leliana watch him leave with careful eyes.

“Josephine will handle him,” Leliana says. “Vivienne, Solas, Dorian -- is there any way to undo this?” Vivienne considers.

“You said Cassandra spared you, Varric?” Varric nods. “What you describe sounds more like a spell of frenzy than possession. It may well be that Cassandra’s communion with the spirit of faith prevents her from being fully controlled.”

“Well, it’s certainly got her sword-arm,” Dorian says, and groans.

“Yes,” says Vivienne. “We must not let our high opinion of Cassandra cloud our thoughts. But she spared you. That points to something.”

“Cassandra has done the impossible before,” Solas says. “But we should not expect it of her. It may simply be that the possession had not fully taken hold yet.”

“She has not transformed physically, which is the final threshold of possession,” Vivienne says thoughtfully.  “Her body still holds her shape.”

“She lacks a mage's connection to the fade, but that does not mean that she is not fully possessed,"  Solas points out. Leliana, who has been lurking in grim silence, speaks up.

“She spoke of the Conclave,” she says. “Cassandra is a woman of faith. But she has never been able to accept the death of Divine Justinia.” Leliana is so cold Varric can almost feel the shadow of the grave burning from her, worse than the slimy feel of Dorian’s necromancy. “If she is thinking of the Conclave, than some part of her is still reaching for that faith.” In the silence, the only sound is Dorian’s uneven gasps of pain.

“We must free her, one way or another,” says Vivienne. “Cassandra would not want us to keep her alive out of sentiment.”

“Tomorrow,” says Varric, surprised at his own bitterness. “We need to heal, to get our heads on straight -- find out which mages knew about this. See if there’s anything else we can find out about this ritual. Cassandra won’t die from one day in that cavern, if she’s not already dead.”

“Tomorrow,” echoes Leliana. “Today, we have other work before us.” Her eyes snap upwards, and she has a knife in her hand when the Grand Enchanter comes in through the door. She’s flanked by a trio of mages clutching elfroot and some other plants Varric recognizes as useful for healing but can’t name. The plants, he suspects, are the only reason Leliana doesn’t draw on them.  

“Grand Enchanter,” she says, her voice sharp and cold. “My colleague has been wounded as the result of mages practicing an unknown ritual in the bowels of Skyhold. Do you have any knowledge of this?”

“No,” says Fiona. Her eyes skim over to Dorian. “I thought we were under attack, perhaps by Corepheus, and so I came to help. We have sent our best combat mages to aid Cullen’s templars. May we help here?”

“Go ahead,” says Leliana with a curt nod. The mages hurry over to Solas, who accepts their help with bad grace.

“What sort of ritual?” Fiona asks briskly. “Perhaps we can disrupt it.”

“A modification of the ritual to undo Tranquility,” says Solas. Varric can feel the air go cold and still. “The Seeker has been possessed by a demon called up by this ritual.”

“Is that so?” says Fiona. “Only a limited number of people in the tower have the expertise to modify a ritual like that.” Her hands tighten on the staff. “I will be happy to show you to all of them.”

“Good,” says Leliana. She is too professional to caress the knives at her waist, but her movements betray her mood. Varric can recognize a predator’s stalk when he sees one. He hurries after Fiona and Leliana, and Vivienne follows. Good. Varric wants to say that Leliana is not the type to do something stupid, but long experience has taught him that sooner or later everyone is stupid. Hopefully today won’t be Leliana’s day.

They walk into the tower, Fiona seemingly unaffected by the parade behind her. Varric’s respect for the woman, already high, climbs a few notches.  She claps for silence, then addresses the mages.

“Gather everyone and bring them to the garden,” says Fiona. “If anyone is in the middle of something that can’t be stopped, don’t leave. Stay, watch, and call for someone else to watch with you until they go. This is a matter of the highest urgency.”

Before long, there’s a sizable group of mages huddled together in the garden, whispering nervously to each other. Leliana is watching them like a hawk ready to swoop, and Varric is torn between keeping an eye on her and on the powder keg gathering down in the garden. Vivienne, bless her sparkly ass, has teleported down into the garden and is walking around reassuring the little mages, hobknobbing, and generally being a shiny beacon of reassurance.

A spark, and two mages appear on the balcony. One is dressed in blue, and wears the breastplate that marks her as a knight-enchanter and the broken seal of the former Tranquil on her head. The other one is in yellow, with the stained hands of a healer.

“It is not a good idea to surprise me,” Leliana says evenly, her gaze sweeping over them.

“Sorry,” the one in yellow says. “I heard from the enchanter that Cassandra was injured. I wanted to offer my services.”

“And I my sword, if it is needed. Cassandra rescued me from a hell which I cannot begin to describe.” The blue mage speaks slowly and carefully, but it is nothing like how a Tranquil speaks. It reminds Varric of the slow, calm speech that marked Merill under extreme stress.

“I will keep you in mind,” Leliana says evenly. The yellow mage glances at the blue mage, who shrugs.

“We wanted to be Seekers,” the yellow one says.  “Don’t lose our Head Seeker, okay?” Before Leliana can reply, they vanish in a blur of light.

“Well, that was weird,” Varric mutters. Next to him, Leliana merely leans over the balcony. Fiona is calling the all clear. Everyone’s accounted for. Leliana steps forward, balancing expertly on the balcony.

“Friends, mages, members of the Inquisition,” she calls, her voice calm and clear as a challenge. Varric’s fear falls away. She’s not going to blame the mages, she’s going to rally them to her side. Of course. Leliana is too good a politician and too practical a woman to alienate the only people who can help them rescue Cassandra.

“I did not come to blame you, but to ask for help,” Leliana says, and flops into a seated position on the balcony, looking distressed. “My friend Cassandra is on the verge of death.” The grief in Leliana’s voice is raw and real. “The woman who fought through Caer Oswick to bring the world the cure for Tranquility has been attacked by a demon.” A rustle goes out through the crowd; the mages know how this game goes. One person does the deed and all the mages get the chop.

“I did not come to blame you, but to ask for help,” Leliana repeats. “I only ask that you hear my speech before you leave. I speak with no arrow in my hand, no Templar at my back. I only have a few questions, asked openly. Please. If you have no love for me, stay, for the woman who fought through Caer Oswick to bring you the cure.” Varric is good at selling action, romance, jokes. Low brow stuff. Leliana sells the big stuff, the real lies. Truth, duty, faith. She pauses, and in the pause Vivienne blinks to her side in a flash of light. Damn mages zooming everywhere with their magic.

“I am Vivienne, enchanter to the Imperial Court,” she says, as though scorning anyone who doesn’t already know her name. “I am First Enchanter of the Circle of Montsimmard, and I will let no innocent mage be punished, nor will I let the guilty go free. This is not a matter for Templars. We mages have our own justice. I am a mage, and I will not see all of us tarnished for a few mistakes.” The scorn is Vivienne’s voice is unmistakable, as is the pride. “This, I swear in the name of my companion, Cassandra Pentaghast, who never faltered in her pursuit of the truth.” It sounds too much like an elegy for Varric’s taste.

“People will try to hide the truth, but there are always signs,” Leliana says, and her voice is gentle even as it rings out over the crowd.  Varric is in the presence of a master. “If any of you saw someone working in secret, stealing materials from the storeroom, vanishing for long periods of time; let us know. Vivienne and Fiona will investigate.” Leliana’s voice dips, grows gentler. “I do not come to accuse you. I come because my comrade -- my sister -- lies dying. May be dead already, with more deaths to follow. You, only you, can prevent more bloodshed. Please.”

Leliana lets the silence sit for a while, lets the mages begin to whisper among themselves. Vivienne stands at her side, glittering, cold, proud.

There’s a commotion in the crowd, and then a hand goes up.

“Corwin,” someone yells. It’s a thin, short girl with long brown hair and glasses. She makes her way to the front of the crowd. Someone else is pushed forward -- Corwin, by the looks of him. “He left during practice,” the girl says, lips trembling. “At least twice a week. He asked me to cover for him. I thought he was going to see his girlfriend.”

“I was,” Corwin says desperately. “You’re just accusing me to cover for yourself!” Fiona makes a sharp gesture and Corwin’s voice cuts off.

“We will investigate all claims,” she says.

The girl goes to stand beside Corwin. “I’m telling the truth,” she says defiantly. “I don’t care if I’m investigated.” More hands go into the air, and more people are pushed forward -- someone who was taking alchemy ingredients secretly, but was noticed by the person behind him on stock, someone who was writing letters with elaborate diagrams hidden inside of them. The crowd pushes the accused forward like they’re something dirty. They finish with about fifteen accused, and another fifteen or so ready to testify. Too many. Probably half of them are just people who were sneaking off to take naps during their shift, but a couple of them give each other looks when dragged up. From the way Leliana looks at them, she’s noticed it too.

“If you have not given testimony, nor have you been accused, you may leave,” calls Grand Enchanter Fiona. The courtyard begins to empty, and then one of the mages steps away from the crowd.

“You cowards!” he calls. “How can you leave us to them?” Thick, oily smoke begins to pour off of him, and Varric’s skin prickles. He stinks of red lyrium and the fade. Abomination, he thinks, and right on cue the mages begin to scream and run. Leliana leaps over the balustrade and cuts his throat mid-transformation.  Varric runs to the edge and takes out Bianca -- Leliana is impressive but she can’t fight off multiple demons by herself -- and then Grand Enchanter Fiona slams the tip of her staff into the floor and Leliana sways, puts a hand to her head and drops to the floor, along with every mage within thirty feet of her.

“They’re only asleep,” says Vivienne gently to Varric. A blur of magic, and suddenly she’s down in the courtyard, lifting Leliana carefully out of her slumber.

Varric has to take the long way around, down the stairs. By the time he manages to push into the courtyard past the last few fleeing mages, the area is mostly empty. Twenty or so mages have formed a half circle around Vivienne, Leliana and Fiona. They are waking the witnesses one by one and removing them from the area.

Fiona reaches out to one girl, who stirs, sees Leliana with her bloody knives standing to the side, and starts to scream.

“Don’t give me to the Templars,” she begs. “I’m not a malificar.” Fiona reaches her hands out and the girl shrinks back. “You’re with them,” she says. Vivienne looks at Leliana, who sinks back into the crowd. Then she takes off her hat.

“Here,” Vivienne says gently. She advances carefully, on her knees, holding the hat out in front of her. “I have something for you. It’ll protect you from Templars.”

The girl, who can’t be more than 10, snatches the hat from Vivienne and cradles it to her chest. She breathes in, sobbing, and stands there for a few seconds, clutching the hat. “Really?” she asks Vivienne.

“Yes,” says Vivienne, as though she’s never believed anything else in her life. The girl allows herself to be led away.

The accused are up next. The mages who remained in the area go stiff. Hands go to staffs. Leliana finds an alcove and lines up a shot. The first one woken up bursts into tears, just like the girl did.

“I was trying to make a potion to impress Lissa,” he says. Fiona hugs him close, promises that he won’t come to any harm if he’s not guilty. Vivienne walks him to the stairs and sends him off. Poor kid. The whole scene makes Varric feel sick. It’s like Kirkwall all over again. They wake another five with no incident or attack, but the sixth, a young man with dark eyes, presses a palm full of electricity into Fiona’s outstretched hand and holds her body in front of him to forestall Leliana’s shot.

“How could you?” a mage from the crowd yells. “After these people rescued us from Corepheus -- healed our wounded, saved our Tranquil!”

“Saved our Tranquil?” The young man is shaking. “Our Ttranquil are dead! Where were they when my brother died? Where were they when Meredith and her men whipped us, raped us? They judge us, and Commander Cullen walks free!” His voice garbles and twists. Varric catches Fiona with his grappling hook and yanks her out of the way just as a rage demon tears out of the young man’s body.

A cage descends from the sky, booming with thunder, and the remaining mages wake. One of them struggles towards his comrades and ripples, a pride demon tearing from his body, and the rest flee.

Fire fills the air, lighting up the garden like a second sun. The Inquisitor's precious royal elfroot goes up in flames and the Pride demon rears back and screams, one of Leliana’s arrows imbedded in the side of its head.

“Use ice on the rage demon!” Vivienne yells, teleporting into the front of the battle, a sword of light shining in her outstretched hand. Where are the Templars when you need them? Vivienne raises a barrier over her head just before a blow from the pride demon slams down on her.

The world narrows to the targets Varric has in front of him, and the dangers he has to avoid. The rage demon. The pride demon’s whip. He fires arrow after arrow, noting dimly that Leliana is doing the same. Vivienne is putting up a heroic defense, singlehandedly drawing the pride demon’s attention to keep it away from the rows of mages behind her, while the rage demon is chasing a pair of determined mages around the courtyard. Varric focuses his fire on the rage demon, and fails to notice the pride demon lifting its whip into the air. Pain scorches across his side and he’s lifted into the air for a sickening, weightless moment before he slams down at the demon’s feet. A loud stomp, and a girl next to him screams as her arm crunches under the demon’s heel.

“Hold on,” says Varric, hoping she can hear him, and grabs her with one arm and his hook with the other. They’re pulled clear of the battle just as Vivienne screams for barriers. Varric stumbles away from the battle, the little mage clinging to him. “Good job, kid,” he says. Up close, she looks a bit like Daisy -- pale skin, green eyes, blood.

“Did I help?” she croaks.

“You did,” he says. “Now go find a healer.” She stumbles towards the door.

There’s the sound of boots in the corridor, and then Cullen and a row of Templars come charging around the bend. Cullen yells out a challenge and the pride demon runs for him, the mages firing at its back from a cautious distance. Cullen takes the blow on his shield like it’s nothing. He thumps his shield, drawing the demon’s attention.

“You,” he says, pointing his sword at the demon, “are _nothing_ compared to Cassandra.” The demon brings its club down on Cullen’s shield; Cullen screams back, his Templars falling into place around him. The battle is over. Cullen and his Templars hold the demon’s attention while the mages shower it with fire and lightning. Once the pride demon goes down, Cullen goes to the doors of the rooms and slams into a guard position, as stiff as Varric’s ever seen him. An older man and a teenager come forward, a young man hanging between them.

“He tried to run away,” the girl says.

“He was with them,” adds the man.

Vivienne’s lips thin. Covered in sweat and blood, the sleeve of her dress torn, she looks every inch a queen.

“Tell me,” she says, and the ragged mage held between his companions crumples like tissue paper.

 

The conspiracy turns out to be three boys with bad taste in penpals.  It makes Varric sick to think of Cassandra turned into the twitching thing in the basement by three kids, one of whom still has the pimples of youth. One of them -- the one who turned into a rage demon -- had been in correspondence with the Venatori, and they’d sent him red lyrium. The second one had come up with the modified ritual of Tranquility, and summoned up the demon. The third one, the one they had, was just an ordinary coward. He’d found out about the others on accident, and they’d threatened and cajoled him, and he’d said nothing.

He’d been in Kirkwall, he said, tears running down his face. He hadn’t realized how bad the ritual was, or known that Cullen wouldn’t kill a tenth of the mages when he found out just to make a point. Like Meredith had done. Tears were streaming down his face; his body was shaking with sobs. They had been writing to other people, he said, and he could show them where the letters were kept. He didn’t know who Corepheus’ agent in Skyhold was. He hadn’t intended for any of this to happen. Information spilled from him like blood from a wound, until he was crying and begging to be made Tranquil.

“I’ll handle this,” Fiona says at last.

“Of course,” Vivienne replies, her voice filled with scorn. Fiona tenses, but there is nothing more -- Vivienne turns and leaves, blood marking the spot where she had stood.

“Let me help,” says Leliana, and she and Fiona walk away, the prisoner stumbling between the two of them. Varric is left with two frightened mages.

“Can I have some paper?” he asks.

 

Varric writes the notice in Cole’s corner of the attic, accompanied by himself and a few miserable candles. Cole’s recovered from the sword to the ribs; it must be some spirit shit. He walked up to Varric as he was seated at his desk and offered to take him away.

Varric pauses, dips his quill in ink for the fifth time, starts, stops. It shouldn't be so hard to write a simple notice. Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of Truth, was possessed by a demon today, her shield held high, caught in the process of protecting a dwarf who was an asshole to her for the last six months.

He won’t write that, of course. This isn’t about him. It’s not even about Cassandra. He’s rarely met someone less able to take a compliment. If he showed the notice to Cassandra, she’d shrug it off, probably turn a little red, like she’d done in the tunnel when he’d called her Peaches. “Varric,” she’d say, “I have no time for this drivel.”

“She would like it, though,” Cole says.

“I know, Kid,” Varric says.

“She likes you,” Cole says.

“I know,” Varric says wearily.

 

A notice, posted in Skyhold and signed by the Inquisitor:

Seeker Pentaghast, through tireless work, has uncovered a conspiracy within Skyhold to summon demons and was gravely injured in the process of raiding their stronghold. We welcome prayers for her recovery. With the brave and loyal aid of the Inquisition Mages, the traitors have been found and defeated by a coalition of Inquisition forces. One remains in custody. Corypheus may attempt to divide us, but he fails at every turn. Whatever we were before, we are now the Inquisition, and nowhere is hidden from our eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Shout-out to soundssimpleright for betaing this for me!  
> \- Ah, Varric, you have bad luck when it comes to your personal romances.   
> \- Do you ever just stop and think about how badass Vivienne and Leliana are?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [Nomette](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/nomette) on tumblr if you want to join the Cassandra Pentaghast party.


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